Page 60 of Heiress Gone Wild

She sniffed. “Only about some of them. You couldn’t describe Galbraith or Torquil in such a way.”

“I notice you don’t mention David. He’s a lily of the field if ever I saw one. Takes great pride in the fact, too, I daresay.”

“Well, you’ve got me there,” she conceded. “But I don’t see why it’s anything to be proud of. In the States, gentlemen are encouraged, even expected, to take up a career.”

“While gentlemen on this side of the pond are expected to work as little as possible. As an American, it’s a cultural difference you might find difficult to accept, especially if your goal is to marry a titled peer.”

Somehow, marrying a duke or an earl didn’t seem quite so appealing now. The reason, of course, was the man walking beside her, a fact she found both frustrating and depressing. Still, there was no point in dwelling on it, so she looked away, hoping for a diversion, and found it almost immediately when they passed the next shop. “Would you look at that?” she cried, stopping in genuine relief and happy surprise. “It’s a Trotter!”

“It doesn’t look like a horse,” he said doubtfully, making her laugh. “But I shall take your word for it.”

“A Trotter is a camera, silly.” She leaned as close to the window as her hat brim would allow and immediately gave a cry of delight. “It has a Lancaster lens, too. Look!”

“That, if the tone of your voice and the smile on your face are anything to go by, is a good thing.” He also leaned closer to the window. “It seems to have a carrying case as well.”

“Well, of course it does. It is a field camera.” Laughing, she turned her head to look at him, and at the sight of his face so close to her own, the fabulous camera in the window was forgotten.

He was smiling, watching her in a way that made her catch her breath, and suddenly, the memory of their kiss aboard theNeptunewent through her mind, and she had to fight to remember what she’d been about to say. “That’s why it has a case,” she blurted out in a rush. “A field camera is designed to be portable, so one can... can... take pictures outdoors. Landscapes, you know. In... in...”

“Fields?” he teased, his smiling widening. But then, his lashes lowered, he eased a fraction closer, and his smile vanished, causing her heart to give a lurch of excitement.

Was he going to kiss her? she wondered wildly. Surely not, not right here on the street. And yet, even as she negated the possibility, she leaned closer, too, pulled toward him like a magnet, her heart hammering in her chest.

But then, he looked up, his eyes grave as they met hers. “Perhaps I should get one,” he murmured.

Dazed, she blinked, unable to remember what they’d been talking about. “One what?”

“Field camera.” He nodded toward the window. “It might be a handy thing to have on my travels.”

The reminder that he was leaving shifted everything back into place, and the spell was broken. Perhaps that had been his intent. “We should go on,” she said flatly and pulled back from the window. “If not, I’ll be late.”

Seeming surprised, he nodded to the Trotter. “Don’t you want to buy it?”

She hesitated, biting her lip, tempted, but then she shook her head. “No,” she said and turned away to resume walking. “There’s no point. Not anymore.”

As she spoke, she was startled by the tinge of bitterness in her voice, the bitterness of a long-ago, almost forgotten disappointment. As he fell in step beside her, she could feel his eyes watching her, and it goaded her into speech.

“Do you remember you told me that once a dream is dead, you don’t want to give it a second chance?”

“I do, yes. Photography was a dream of yours, was it?”

She nodded. “When I was about twelve, I got this crazy idea I’d follow my father out West and be a photographer. That I’d go with him, take pictures of what we saw, be the first woman to photograph the Wild West...” She paused a moment, thinking of the girl she’d been then, a girl who’d thought her father still wanted her, a girl who’d made every excuse in the world for him. “It was stupid.”

“It doesn’t sound that way to me,” he said gently. “Why would you think it so?”

“You have to ask?” She turned her head to look at him, laughing, trying to make light of it. “My father letting me tag along with the two of you?”

“I suppose not,” he muttered. “Did you learn photography at school?”

“Oh, no. Forsyte Academy is a prestigious finishing school. Girls are taught the classical arts—sketching, watercolors, painting in oils.”

“But those didn’t appeal to you?”

She glanced at him, making a face. “I can’t draw.”

He chuckled. “I see. But if you didn’t learn photography at school, how did you learn?”

“A local photographer in White Plains offered a course on the subject when I was fifteen. I thought it was my chance, and I begged Mrs. Forsyte to let me sign up. She agreed, on the condition that I persuade at least one other girl to participate, so I roped in my friend Jenna, who you’ll meet today. She was always up for anything fun.”

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