Awakening The Shy Miss - Bronwyn Scott

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down Evie’s drive at half-past one the next day, admiring the haphazard compilation of bricks and time that was the Milhams’ house. Definitely Elizabethan, he concluded, in its initial construction. He could make out the symmetry of the era in the roofline. He squinted up against the sun to take a more professional interest in the house. An archaeologist was part-historian, part-architect and part-expert in a host of other subjects as well. He picked out a few themes with his keen eye. There was a nod to early Georgian in the pediment above the front door.

      That pediment was likely the most recent addition to the house’s eclectic architecture. From the state of the front gardens, the latest generation hadn’t paid much attention to the external state of the house. He strode along a gravel drive where flowers grew in wild anarchy alongside, having long ago given up any adherence to the limits of the beds they’d been planted in. There were no boundaries here, none of the order of the organised, ornamental gardens of Kuban, modelled on the tamed excellence of Versailles. There were no pruned hedges or carefully shaped bushes. Yet, the look suited the place much better. Many back home would disagree with him, would give such wild nature a disparaging glance. He found it charming, a peaceful haven. He wondered what the Kuban nobility would do if he replicated such a style at his home.

      The housekeeper answered his knock and he stepped inside, his senses taking it all in with the astute eye of an archaeologist trained to look for patterns and behaviours: books stacked on consoles in the hallway, books lining shelves in every room the housekeeper took him past, some books lying open. The interior matching the exterior perfectly. The occupants of this house had far more important priorities than landscaping. They lived an internal life of the mind.

      ‘I’ll let Miss Milham know you’re here.’ The housekeeper left him in a cheery yellow sitting room, where more books populated the walls and a small, cosy cluster of furniture upholstered in yellow-and-rose chintz resided in the wide bow of the windows.

      A housekeeper. Dimitri smiled at her departure. No stodgy butlers here. A housekeeper had received a Prince of Kuban and had no true notion of who had just walked into the house. He liked the novelty of that anonymity. Everyone fussed over him as if he were more special than the next man. But here, in the Milhams’ household, he sensed he might be able to move past that. Andrew’s words drifted back to him: She’s not rich enough. The Milhams did not keep a full complement of staff, perhaps for multiple reasons. Perhaps it was financial, or perhaps they understood every servant was another responsibility, one more acquired burden, an anchor against freedom. Dependents were both a blessing and a curse.

      ‘You came.’

      He turned, catching the sound of surprise in Evie’s voice. She looked cool and fresh in a white summer muslin sprigged with tiny blue forget-me-nots. Blue was definitely her colour. It brought out the auburn highlights in her hair, turning it more chestnut than brown. They’d not been obvious at the assembly. Dimitri smiled. ‘Did you think I wouldn’t?’ He spoke the words without thinking, the teasing, flirtatious response coming easily to his practised wit. This was how urbane princes interacted with women. He was curious as to how Evie Milham would respond. How would his hypothesis play out now that they were alone, away from a crowd where she felt self-conscious? He told himself it was no more than simply his usual ‘excavation’ of a person, of taking their measure, yet a part of him was on edge, wanting her to make a certain response, wanting her to come alive for him.

      She blushed a little, but she did not shrink from being direct. ‘I didn’t want you to feel trapped. I feared May pushed the appointment on you.’

      ‘I wouldn’t miss it.’ He was touched. She’d been advocating for him. She’d been trying to protect him. It was a very small protection to be sure. In a life spent protecting others he simply wasn’t used to it being the other way around. ‘Many people would not hesitate to use any means necessary to capture a prince’s time.’ He probed carefully. It was true. One woman had followed him to the privy and locked the door.

      ‘I think you’ll find I’m not like most people.’ Another sort of woman would have made the line into a not so cleverly veiled invitation. Not Miss Milham. Was that a warning? A hint of regret? Why ever would she want to be like others?

      He was counting on her assessment to be correct. ‘I find the “usual” holds little fascination for me.’ His own voice was low, issuing a private invitation of his own, his eyes holding hers, daring her not to look away. He should not wish for such a thing. Nothing but trouble could come from it. But he couldn’t stop himself from wanting it anyway. Come to life for me, Evie Milham. I know you’re in there. Don’t be afraid.

      There it was. Her steady gaze, her answer. She did not look away. He gestured to the wall of books, looking for a subject to put her at ease. Now that he had her this far, he didn’t want her intimidated. ‘Have you read all of these?’

      ‘Some.’

      He was going to have to work harder. He wanted to assure her his title meant nothing. He was as ordinary as the next man, at least he wanted to be. No one needed to stand on ceremony with him. He’d never get to know her secrets otherwise, secrets he had no business knowing, no need to know.

      ‘Which ones? Which ones have you read?’ He grinned. It was a preposterous question. There were over a hundred books right in front of him. He plucked a book at random from the shelf. ‘How about this one? A History of the West Country by Pieter von Alpers? He’s not even a good Englishman from the sounds of his name.’ The comment made her laugh and that was what he intended.

      ‘He’s Dutch.’ Evie smiled, letting it light her face. ‘Sometimes it helps to see one’s own history through the eyes of another. My father says it brings new perspective. But, no, I haven’t read that one.’

      She was starting to relax. He could see now that she wasn’t shy as he’d first thought, but merely wary. This was a learned behaviour, acquired at some point. This was her attempt to protect herself. From what? From whom? He tucked the new piece of information away.

      Evie ran her hand over the book spines on the shelves, coming to stop on one of them. ‘I’ve read this one.’ She handed it to him. ‘He has an especially interesting interpretation of early Saxon history.’ He smiled appreciatively. Evie Milham was a historian. How intriguing. He didn’t meet many women who were or who would admit to it.

      ‘Like father like daughter? I’d like to meet your father some time. I could use a local historian’s help on my project. I was surprised Andrew didn’t include him in the initial circle of investors for the site. By the way, is he joining us today?’ Was anyone joining them? He could hardly believe someone wasn’t chaperoning and yet it appeared the Milhams’ casual approach to living extended to their daughter, who was apparently allowed to meet men unattended. He thought it seemed somehow disrespectful of them to leave her alone no matter how honourable his intentions were.

      ‘Are you worried for your reputation?’ There was a shade of worry in her eyes that was entirely sincere. Other women would have delivered the line with a flirty laugh. He knew plenty of those women. But Evie Milham was not one of them. She was genuinely sympathetic. ‘Shall I call someone?’ She was flustered again and it was his fault. In an attempt to honour her, he’d managed to insult her.

      Dimitri chuckled, trying to put her at ease. He’d not meant to upset her any more than he’d meant to insult her. ‘Are you worried for yours?’

      ‘You’re here to view a tapestry, not ravish me.’ Evie scoffed. He heard the hint of sorrow, or was that resignation, again?

      ‘Are you sure about that?’ he teased, although he wasn’t sure it was entirely a joke on his part. Evie Milham was ravish-worthy, with her glorious hair and that carefully guarded smile, especially when she wasn’t doubting herself, when she was letting her real self out to play as she had when they’d discussed the history books.

      She smiled, but there was a shadow in her eyes now. ‘I’ve had years to be quite sure of that, Your Highness.’ He understood. She thought he was embarrassed to be alone with her, maybe even ashamed to be seen with her. The realisation gave him pause. Where had she ever acquired such a belief

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