Page 34 of All Scot and Bothered
“Quite the contrary,” he scoffed. “I believe there’s no one for anyone. I’m not one to believe in soul mates and kismet, Miss Teague. Marriage is just like anything else of its nature. A legal binding contract between two people.”
She paused beneath a bower of lilacs, replacing the sky with blooming violet flowers that complemented her gown. “What about love?” she asked.
“What about it?”
“Do younotbelieve in love?”
“I suppose I do,” he replied, though he interrupted her relieved sigh by continuing, “I believe love is a construct of people to explain away their biological urges and unreasonable attachments to each other. It’s a word that can explain away otherwise unexplainable behavior.”
She regarded him ruefully. “Unreasonable attachments? Surely you don’t feel that way about the duke and Alexandra? They’re undeniably in love.”
“They’re besotted, I won’t deny that, but their attachment is young. Life hasn’t yet had a chance to rip them away from themselves. From each other.”
She shook her head slowly as though she couldn’t believe him. “I just—don’t understand how you can be so… so… cynical.”
Ramsay shrugged. “Years of practice, I suppose.”
To his utter surprise, she laughed.
And even in the dark, her laughter felt like sunlight on his skin.
He was disconcerted enough by the sensation not to commit to the threatening smile twitching at the corner of his lips.
“I’ve found it’s better to be cynical than to be naive,” he asserted. “Safer.”
Her regard turned wary. “Are you implying I’m naive simply for believing in love? Because I’ll have you know, I’ve seen some of the worst humanity has to offer.”
“Is that so?” He highly doubted she’d suffered more trials than a broken bootlace. Her smile was much too genuine. Her eyes sparkled with curiosity and mirth, unhaunted and dauntless. Her clothes were expensive, and she ate well enough to keep her body delectably round. He searched her gaze for grief. For shadows. For the pain that makes one cold. Or hard.
Or in his case, both.
All he found were sapphires sparkling in moonlight refracted by glass and silver wire. Suddenly, his fingers itched to take off her spectacles. To see if her eyes were truly so deep an azure, and her lashes a fan of such a distracting hue.
“I’ve seen the worst,” she repeated with absolute conviction. “And I wouldn’t at all consider myself credulous. I’m merely…”
“Romantic?”
“Optimistic,” she offered.
“Idealistic, you mean.”
She shook her head. “More… hopeful.”
He grunted. “Hope. The currency of dreamers.”
A little frown pinched her brow. “And what’s wrong with that?”
He fought to maintain his mask of impassivity as a familiar hollow, wintry feeling rose within him. “Dreams die.”
“Everything dies.” She shrugged her insouciance over that fact, threading her fingers around some lilac blossoms. “But dreams are full of hope, and without hope, my lord, you might as well hang us all on your gallows, for we’ve no reason to be human anymore.”
It took him longer than he liked to absorb her meaning, and he didn’t have time to process the effect her words had upon him. So he deflected.
“What is it ye hope for?” he wondered. “A husband?”
“Lord, no!” This time she laughed long enough to be slightly insulting.
“But ye believe in love? Someone for everyone and so on, but doona wish it for yerself?”
