Page 83 of Hearts of Briarwall

Her response? “You were simplytrustingwith the American. You’re being afoolwith Lydia.”

How could a woman he’d met only an hour ago have summed up everything so precisely? Lydia’s friends all had their quirks, but Miss Burke’s powers of observation were the most unnerving by far.

He still hadn’t decided—or admitted—how correct she was.

He headed to the temple. At least Lydia would be out of the rain. He climbed the steps and brushed water off his shoulders and arms as he looked around. Hero shook himself, keeping close to Spencer’s leg.

“Lydia?” He stepped farther inside. “At least let me give you my coat.”

“No. I don’t need your pity.”

He glanced around, the faint echo making it hard to pinpoint where she was. He stepped into the main body of the temple, flanked by both inner and outer rows of columns. Iris, sword fern, and cypress edged either side of the temple among the newly greening rose bushes and creeping ivy. The rain increased, judging by the sound on the surrounding foliage.

“It isn’t pity,” he said. “It’s knowledge that I have both a coat and a cardigan, and you’ve only the lovely but likely damp dress you’re wearing.”

“Don’t talk flattery to me, Spencer Hayes.”

He spied a flutter of pink-and-white stripes—like a candy stick—behind the fourth column on the left. He stepped carefully that way.

“Believe me, you will know when I talk flattery to you.”

Hero went before him and circled around the column, tail wagging.

“Go, Hero,” he heard Lydia whisper. “Go over there.”

The dog sat, panting.

“Hero, I said go. Go fetch a stick.”

“I believe—”

She gasped and spun around at the sound of Spencer’s words directly behind her.

“—you need to throw a stick in order for him to fetch it.”

She collected herself quickly. “Perhaps I should throwyoua stick. What are you doing?”

Spencer had removed his coat as she spoke and reached around to place it over her shoulders. “I’m giving you my coat. You’re shivering.”

“I am not.”

He pulled the front lapels together at her collarbone. “You are.” Her damp hair was curling at her temples, her dark lashes glistening.

She stepped back but was stopped by the pillar behind her.

“Lydia.” He sighed. “I heard what Andrew said. Please, let me help you.”

“Like you helped me with the song?”

The set of her chin told him the question was either a set-down or a challenge. He went with the former. “You kissedme, remember?”

“Yes, and I suppose I just imagined the fervor of your response. I am, after all, outspoken and brash and so wild it’s a wonder I manage to walk upright and use a spoon.” She brushed away a stray lock of hair and pulled herself up straight. “I understand now why you pulled away from me that night and made it clear you would not have me. I wonder if all of Surrey knows of Andrew’s and Sir Lawrence’s benevolent plans for the poor, uncouth Wooding orphan girl? Not to mention what getting entangled with Sir Lawrence’s supposed intended would mean to his likely sizeable investment in a new venture.” Her brows furrowed. “But what I can’t understand is, if you already knew, why did you respond to me, to the kiss, the way you did? Before you pulled away, I mean?”

Violet was right. Lydia didn’t play games. Spencer’s breath grew labored under the honesty she hurled at him. He shook his head as she waited for his answer. “You are so ... so—”

“Undisciplined? Brutish? Too—”

He growled and closed the distance between them even as she reached for him, lifting her flushed mouth to his. He tasted salt from her tears mixed with rainwater. He pulled her closer, wrapping her up in his arms. He wanted to shield her from all that would make her cry or make her doubt.

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