Page 52 of Brave New Earl (The Way to a Lord's Heart 1)

“Do you call it that? I should have looked for a book about the plague,” she added acerbically. “But how was I to know that? How could anyone?”

He laughed.

Miss Saunders frowned. “You’re not worried that Geoffrey keeps talking about death?”

“Not really. He seems more curious than uneasy about it.”

“You don’t…” She hesitated, then said, “What if he’s thinking of his mother?”

It was like one of those moments in the boxing ring when a smashing blow slips past your ear, Benjamin thought. The pain—so crushing, so often felt—brushed by him this time, leaving just a whisper of an echo in its wake. “I don’t think he is,” he answered.

“Why?”

“Because he speaks with such gusto.”

She stopped on the stairs and looked at him. Benjamin took the full force of her challenging gaze. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to be able to kiss her whenever he liked, and to follow the kisses with much more. After last night, what man wouldn’t? A dry inner voice countered that question with others. A man who didn’t care for high drama? One who had enough on his plate already?

“He does,” she said slowly. “And he seems to enjoy shocking us, too. But can he really? He’s so young.”

“I know very little about children in general,” Benjamin replied. Miss Saunders shrugged in wry agreement. “I have to judge Geoffrey by his own yardstick. And I see nothing mournful in his words or manner.”

She considered this, biting her lower lip in a way that made Benjamin long to pull her close. “I agree.” She started moving again. “Very observant of you.”

He fell into step beside her. “You sound surprised.”

“After the state of things when I arrived? Of course I am.” She walked faster. “I’m not going to read him grisly accounts of epidemics. Reading at all was a bad idea, I suppose.”

She sounded dejected, and Benjamin found he wanted to cheer her up. “What about something likeWaverley?”

“Scott is far too old for him.”

“But we’ve agreed that Geoffrey is one of a kind. I expect he’d like the battles.”

“But shouldn’t we be trying to discourage such impulses? Do you want him flying at visitors with a lance instead of a tomahawk? Mounted on Fergus, no doubt, and armored cap-a-pie.”

“At least he’d be clothed,” said Benjamin.

Miss Saunders stared at him for a blank moment, and then she began to laugh. The sound was musical, infectious. He joined her. She laughed more heartily. Their eyes met, shining with humor. His spirits rose. He tried to remember when joy had last rung through his hallways. Too long ago.

Then they reached the library door. And stopped—walking and laughing. The wooden panels loomed. Miss Saunders seemed to share his feeling that another world lay beyond that portal.

She held out the book. “There’s no need for both of us. You can put it back.”

“I don’t know where it goes,” he said, opening the door and not quite chivying her through.

She strode to the shelves, slipping the copy ofGoody Two-Shoesbetween two narrow volumes. “There. Done.” It was as if their laughter had never been. In another moment she would go.

“We should speak about last night,” he said.

“No, we should simply erase it from our minds.”

“Memory can’t be so easily expunged.”

“Yes it can!” she said, her expression fierce.

Benjamin felt a pang of regret. “And this is what you want? That we should pretend you never kissed me? That I never held you?”

“What else?” She stood like a soldier on inspection, the antithesis of the pliant, ardent woman he’d embraced in this room.

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