Page 42 of Sense and Suitability
Perhaps everyone else was mad and he was the only sane one. “Miss Lockhart, you just fell into a pond and are now shivering to such an extent that your lips are blue, and instead of seeking warmth, you propose we chase chickens?”
Those lovely blue lips trembled in a very different way, giving off the slightest warning she might laugh. “If you put it that way, the chickens can wait.”
They walked in silence a moment before she broke it. “I suppose I ought to thank you for your intended rescue, at the very least.” She tugged the blanket closer. “Certainly not the behavior of a notorious scoundrel.”
He said nothing, quickening his stride. The sooner he saw her safely inside and dried off, the sooner he could send her home. Let her believe whatever she wanted.
She hurried to match his pace. He instantly slowed.
“I assume William is your brother?”
He gave a curt nod, keeping his gaze forward. “You shall meet him properly once you’re no longer traipsing about my grounds in a soaked gown.” Which, unfortunately, clung to her frame in ways entirely too distracting. “Mrs. Patterson will chaperone your visit.”
“Mrs. Patterson?” Her breaths came in puffs, so he slowed even more. Well, his legs slowed. His pulse still pounded like a hunted buck’s.
“My housekeeper,” he answered tersely, but she refused to take the hint.
“Oh.” She fell silent, mercifully, but only for a moment. “As I recall, you have three sisters and two brothers?”
The question was innocuous enough, yet it edged toward dangerous territory. Two years ago, he might have answered freely. Back when he had trusted her so completely, he’d considered sharing every secret, every burden, every scar.
But not now.
An ache pricked at the center of his chest and spread a heaviness through him.
Now those secrets were his to bear. Alone.
“You’ll meet the three youngest inside.”
Her smile, so radiant, unexpectedly bloomed at his words and almost undid him.
He had to quell this conversation.
“I imagine Ravenscross has enchanting tales to tell.” The lilt in her voice somehow loosened the tightness in his chest. “Old houses always do. Perhaps even a ghost or two?”
He almost smiled at her absurdity. Almost. And then caught himself.
Ah, he knew very well how to redirect the conversation into an argument.
“You’ve been reading too many of those ridiculous novels.”
Her head whipped around, and she came to a complete stop. “And what, pray tell, is wrong with those?”
Perfect.
He turned to face her, folding his arms across his chest to keep from reaching out to brush those absurd curls away from her face. “Vampires?” He gestured with his chin toward the house. “Haunted estates? They are fanciful nonsense, designed to fill women’s heads with unrealistic expectations.”
Her eyes brightened with fire.
Oh no. He’d not counted the cost of how much he loved watching her fight.
“As a man,” she said, with a dismissive wave of her hand, “you cannot begin to understand a woman’s life.”
“Please enlighten me.” His challenge hit its mark, igniting her ire all the more.
“We wait—constantly. For our father to grant us an escort to town. For a suitor to request a dance. For a husband to provide us a home. And heaven forbid a woman act outside these expectations, or she’s cast out entirely.”
Was she alluding to their meeting two seasons ago?
