The Ornithologist's Field Guide to Love (Love's Academic, #1)

by India Holton

But dang it, she really was pretty, with eyes as blue as the Alaskan cat-catching warbler, a mouth as soft as a morning kiss, and a sweet, heart-shaped face—although it was also a rather sweaty face, and currently scowling at him as if she’d like to stab him with her furled parasol. He wished she would. Pretty was nice; naughty was ever so much better.

So he took an abrupt step forward and snatched Miss Pickering’s parasol. She gasped. “Good heavens! There is no need to be so zealous! I’m sure we can negotiate—” “Negotiate?!” Hippolyta cried out with horror. “I’m happy to negotiate,” Devon said. “Here is my offer: I take the bird, and you wave goodbye nicely.”

Poor girl, so downtrodden by Hippolyta, so timid, she was no doubt— Er, actually, she was beating him with Hippolyta’s parasol. Having grabbed it from the older lady, she spared no effort in whacking Devon about the legs as he began to rise from the path. Delighted, he grinned at her.

Until next time, he promised silently, and his body throbbed at the thought of it (or possibly due to the beating she’d given him).

Gone were his dusty coat and (alas) tight trousers;

one catcall, and she might educate them.

Devon Lockley gave her a lithe smile. “You,” he replied, his tone more friendly and thus far more dangerous than hers. Worse, he’d removed his dinner jacket and unknotted his tie. The bare, olive-toned skin visible where he’d unfastened his shirt collar took “trouble” and dunked it in a glass of hot, rum-infused devilry. Light from the small, dusty windows slid across his mouth languorously, stroking the smile.

“We can’t help them,” Devon said. “We’d be killed ourselves.” “Only a fool would try,” Beth agreed. Thud! “Aagghhh!” “Damn.” Devon’s expression twisted with conflicting emotions. Abruptly, he bent to pull up one trouser leg and draw a knife from the sheath strapped to his calf. Straightening again, he cocked an eyebrow at the sight of Beth holding up her own blade, which she had taken from a skirt pocket. “I thought you were a nice girl,” he said. She looked him in the eye steadily. “That doesn’t mean I’m weak.”

Nevertheless, the gaze they shared was filled with longing—for a permanent departmental office, that is, and their own aviary, and a lifetime’s supply of free tea and biscuits.

Beth sighed. “I fear you are also very rude.” “And yet, you’re still staring.”

Devon leaned forward to whisper. “I suspect you may be rather impolite yourself beneath all those good manners, Miss Pickering.”

You will not disturb my calm waters. Furthermore…” “Yes?” he prompted when she fell silent. She frowned. “Stop smoldering at me like that.”

Beth gestured awkwardly. “With your eyes like that. We can’t have a reasonable discussion while you are smoldering.” His frown swayed out of mischief right into wickedness. “Why, Miss Pickering, I thought I couldn’t disturb your calm waters.”

“That man was Devon Lockley,” Badeau said darkly. “He’s a complete rascal. Copious brainpower but all he wants to do is enjoy life instead of spending his days in the noble pursuit of writing scientific papers for his peers to argue over. It’s disgraceful.

“Perhaps they’re lovers,” Mr. Flogg mused, staring out the window as if he could still see Beth and Devon on the doorstep. The monsieur barked a laugh. “An Oxonian and a Cantabrigian? Never! ‘Rivals’ would be more likely.”

“Rivals, you say? The pretty lady and the dashing young man?”

“It is that Cambridge professor, isn’t it? That Devil Lovely.” “Devon Lockley,” she tried to say,

Devon might be guiltless in this matter, but she did not like the man, nor respect him, nor desire in the slightest to slide her hand through his wayward black hair. He was a bird-stealing fiend, never mind his various charms! They were fiends too, the whole lot of them! And she was a mature, sensible woman, despite the evidence of this paragraph. She sighed, her heart drooping.

Whatever it was she read filled her eyes with enthrallment, and as she turned a page she seemed to hold her breath in anticipation. Watching her, Devon found himself holding his own breath too.

He was being foolish; he knew it. The woman might be pretty, but she was also a rival in the field, an academic foe, an associate of the unscrupulous Hippolyta Quirm, and so very pretty the air around her seemed to glow. The spectacles alone made him want to kiss her until they fell off invite her to dinner at a nice seafood restaurant. He could still feel her warm, soft lips against his palm from when he’d hushed her in the museum’s basement, and his nerves tingled, begging to touch her again.

Beth tipped toward Devon, then righted herself mere inches before a delightful collision could occur. Devon’s body flashed hot. The woman smelled of lavender and pencil shavings, as if she’d just come from hiding in a bush to sketch birds. She was the perfect height for him to cuddle her close and kiss the top of her head—and the moment Devon thought this, he suddenly longed to make it happen.

“Dreadful!” Hippolyta and Oberhufter exclaimed in unison. Then, exchanging a startled look at this agreement, they immediately scowled again. “I heard you plagiarized your book!” Oberhufter shouted. “I heard you plagiarized your personality!” Hippolyta shouted in return.

The chamber shuddered, causing Beth to stumble. Devon automatically put a hand against her waist to steady her. He expected that she’d move away, but she didn’t, and electricity sizzled through him, rousing instincts a man really didn’t like experiencing in a crowded space. He wanted to undress her brain, stroke her perspective, make her gasp out the most fascinating theory she hid from all other men. (He also wanted to kiss the hell out of her, but that went without saying.)

“You are being presumptuous. Perhaps I intend some trickery that involves buying you tea.” Devon took a step toward her. “Will you poison it?” “I might,” she said, lifting her chin and absolutely refusing to retreat. He set a finger beneath the rim of the umbrella, tilting it back. His eyes were full of dangerous promises as he looked down at her unblinkingly. “I might push you into the water,” he said. Hot sparks went through her. “I might get you a croissant along with the tea,” she countered. His mouth twitched. “I might tie you up, gag you, and put you on the next train to Istanbul.” The sparks set fire to an unmentionable part of her body, and it was all she could do not to squirm. “You might,” she agreed, “but before you can, I’ll telegram my bank for funds to get you a ferry ticket.” The twitch became a slanting smile. “Ah, I see the plan now. Bedazzle me with courtesy, then leave me in your dust. Very cunning, angel, but alas, I have my own money.” Angel. Well! Really! Humph! Villain! And other emphatic words that sadly failed to halt the blush speeding toward her face! She’d never been called a nickname before (except in the deep privacy of her own imagination, that is, where she kept a list of suggestions should anyone want one, although no one ever did). She attempted a reply, but her voice seemed to have swooned.

“You have the caladrius call,” she said in a bland tone that concealed the emotional chaos swirling beneath it. Devon looked at her with eyes that seemed even darker than usual, due to the pallor of his face. “I have no idea how it got in my pocket.” “Sure you don’t,” Beth murmured sarcastically. Being nice did not mean being a complete idiot. “I’m serious,” he insisted. “Would I lie to you?” “Yes. You’d lie and steal my bird and send Mrs. Trimble to spy on me and—” Splash. Beth’s jaw fell as she stared at the midnight waters into which Devon had just thrown the caladrius call. “Why on earth did you do that?” “To prove I wasn’t lying,” he said. “I genuinely don’t know why it was in my pocket.” She turned her incredulous stare upon him. “So you just threw it away.”

unbind her glossy hair slowly, pin by pin. It would reach almost to her waist, he guessed with the expertise of a man who had unraveled many a coiffure. It would feel like silk against his skin. He’d brush it back, then tip her chin so as to kiss her soft, lucent throat until she opened those heavenly eyes and saw him… Saw him.

bird, so regretfully set aside the compliment. “Someone has employed a feuerfinch to deliquiate this iron,” she said. “The luteofulvous threads of psychokinetic ignition still emanating from this fringilla accendo semiplume confirm it.” Looking up, she saw the engineer lean sideways toward Devon. “What’s she talking about, mate?” “A magic bird melted your tracks,” Devon translated. “Cor blimey!”

He lifted her so precipitously, Beth stumbled onto the platform, colliding with him. He held her steady…she stared at him in a daze…and after several moments the clerk and engineer cleared their throats awkwardly. Coming to her senses, Beth moved back. With a sardonic smile, Devon released her hands and turned to the clerk and engineer. Beth took the opportunity to discreetly flex her fingers, which thrummed with the sensation of his touch. Villain, she reminded herself. Rival. Pretty, her heart replied with a sigh.

“Separating them from the other ornithologists was a brilliant ploy. It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours and they’re already working together closely.” “Yes, ‘A Golden Team!’ indeed,” Mr. Fettick agreed. “There’s a lot of potential in this rivals-to-lovers concept.” “It’s publicity magic!”

“Oh?” “Yes. Consulting with each other over coffee. Now saddle up, everyone, ha ha. We have a romantic adventure to organize, and I will be very cross if it ends up being madcap.”

And when she bit the end of her pencil while listening to him explain the deathwhistler’s toe structure, he had to lay a pillow across his lap to hide the effect it had on him. Conversing with this woman was like the most delicious foreplay, only with technical descriptions of an avian species in lieu of touching.

Beth reached up to remove her spectacles, and he had to force himself not to catch her hand, stop her, since he couldn’t think of a reason for doing so beyond you’re so damned sexy when you wear them, I want to keep handing you things to read.

“You truly are an angel, aren’t you?” he whispered. “Not as much as you’d think,” she said.

Requesting that dinner be sent to her room, she went upstairs with a speed inspired by (a) significant aggravation, (b) terror that someone she knew would see her and ask about the newspaper article, and (c) aaaaagghhhh.

Furthermore, there failed to be a single moment in which he yearned for their reunion so that he might take her in his arms and kiss her with such a blissful thoroughness she forgot he was a villain.

Matters of the heart stayed in the heart, behind several locked doors and barricades.

No one to talk to about birds, or dance with, or kiss in the swaying firelight. Sorrow came upon her with all the suddenness of an owl upon a mouse.

I miss him, she realized. It’s only been a few hours, but I miss him so much. He’s a villain; he pulled me out of my perfectly calm waters and disturbed me right through my very being…and I miss all of it: the hijinks and hassles and chaotic fun… I miss the me I was with him.

All she saw was his gorgeous infuriating eyes looking down at her with dark intensity as he set a hand against the wall beside her head. He held her gaze for several decades, then looked at her mouth, then farther down. “Pretty dress,” he said, and Beth melted to such a degree she had to press her legs together.

He lifted his gaze, and as their eyes met again, it felt like coming home. Which was ridiculous, Beth told herself. She’d only known the man a short while. He was the opposite of home. He was an unmapped horizon, or a bar chart without category names along the x-axis.

Beth gasped. “Cheat!” “Liar,” he countered. They stared at each other. All that prevented a sudden, shocking bout of tongue kissing and bodice ripping was the crowd of passengers bustling around them. Devon leaned forward, whispering in her ear. “I’ll race you to Oxford University. May the best ornithologist win.”

“By the way,” she said, not bothering to look back. “My name’s not Elizabeth. It’s Beth.” And she left, gently closing the door behind her.

“Fine. Maybe the same woman,” he relented. “She’s my professional rival but I always seem to end up flirting with her.”

He stood abruptly. “I’m going for a stroll.” Gabriel stared at him with bemusement. “A stroll? On a train?” Then his eyes narrowed. “You’re going to spy on that woman.” “Am not,” Devon retorted.

Angel was too feeble a word for her. She was heaven entire, embodied in a woman’s body. She was every superlative in every ridiculous emotional dictionary printed in a man’s heart. Devon wanted to walk up to her, take her in his arms, and feel the grit of his past turn to gold. But he could not move. Time had stopped, breath had stopped; he stared, entranced, wishing helplessly that she’d turn and smile at him.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, poor lad,” said the woman to the left of him, patting his knee. He smiled. “A celestial being, in fact. Beautiful, with eyes like the sky.”

“She’s my rival in a competition.” The women gasped. The men shifted in their seats, glancing at each other with taut silence. “You’re not an othologist are you?” asked the woman to the right. “Yes, I’m a—” “Cockermouth!” shouted the woman to the left. The men jolted, almost dropping their briefcases. But Devon only frowned with mild confusion. “I beg your pardon?”

Devon stared out the window, thinking about reuniting with Beth catching the caladrius, kissing Beth presenting the caladrius to the IOS committee, and sinking himself into Beth’s warm soft depths like a man experiencing a little death and temporarily visiting heaven winning Birder of the Year and the best reward of all, Beth’s love tenure.

Granted, a plain owl of a woman had little chance of winning the heart of a man like Devon Lockley—but she hadn’t become a doctor of ornithology, Britain’s youngest professor, and Huttingdon Primary School’s Most Reliable Student (1873), by surrendering when things got tough! Besides, she didn’t aim so high as his heart, only his smile, maybe a kiss or two…and she wouldn’t turn up her nose at being stuck in a hotel bedroom with him again either, should fate absolutely insist upon it.

Home, he thought with a silent sigh. Which was ridiculous, considering he’d only known the woman for a short while. And yet somehow, Beth Pickering had become a safe hearth for him.