“See, that wasn’t so difficult. You didn’t burst into flames or anything. You are welcome, Miss Stitch.” He walked toward the path. “I know the area well if you’d like to continue. Or I can wait here if you prefer and allow you to go ahead of me.”
Miss Stitch didn’t answer; she seemed to be contemplating her choices. Or Henry.
She jerked her chin, which Henry took as her assent that she meant to continue with him. He started off through the underbrush, back toward the path, listening to the muttered curses as the bramble caught at her skirts. Once they reached the path, Henry shortened his stride to match hers.
“Why don’t you wear gloves?” She tilted her chin toward his bare fingers.
No pretense at polite conversation or female twittering as some women were apt to do. “I don’t care for them. My fingers grow too warm.” The actual reason wasn’t something Henry cared to share. The late Earl of Huntly, in one of his wasted attempts to make his younger son into a gentleman, had made Henry wear his gloves all day and then to bed each night. When his hands had outgrown the leather, his father had forced his hands into the gloves until Henry couldn’t even wiggle his fingers. Douglas had eventually convinced their father to relent.
“Why do you braid your hair back so tightly the corners of your eyes are stretched nearly to the back of your head?”
“Not so today.” Her fingers brushed against the sole braid dangling over her shoulder. “I suppose I feel a more severe hairstyle complements my appearance.”
It did nothing for her appearance, which Henry supposed was the point. Everything about Miss Stitch was designed to keep any male from admiring her. “It’s a lovely color, by the way.” The words came out as soon as he thought them. “Your hair.”
“Thank you.” The compliment had made her uncomfortable; he could tell by the way her slender form grew stiff and angled away from him.
They made their way down the narrow trail in companionable silence, her skirts occasionally brushing against his legs. He remained intensely aware of her next to him, his gaze wandering to the braid of her hair as it bounced against her shoulder. A few strands had pulled free, wafting like ribbons in the breeze.
“Did you hit me with a pea last night?” A tiny twitch of her lips followed her question.
“I’m afraid I did, Miss Stitch. I’d hoped you’d appreciate the distance from which I made my shot.”
“Indeed, I do, my lord. The main table was…quite a distance from where we were seated.” There was a wounded quality to her voice. “We are neither of us well liked, I think.”
“Do you care about being thought wonderful by Lady Trent and a bunch of half-wits?”
Miss Stitch nibbled at her plump lower lip. He could see that shedid, in fact, not care to be disliked in such an obvious manner. A rush of protectiveness toward her filled Henry, mixing with the lust he had for her.
“Outside of Mrs. Culpepper, South, Montieth, and possibly Lord Carver, the whole lot of them speak of nothing but horses, gowns, the weather, and whatever gossip they’ve managed to dig up on each other.” He looked down on her. “The ladies are even worse.”
Her lips pulled into a quiet smile. “You’re a bit jaded, I think.”
Another hint of honeysuckle lit on his tongue. She must bathe in it.
“I am. I don’t mind admitting it. I knew in coming here I might be somewhat unwelcome.”
She gave him a thoughtful look. “Then why subject yourself, my lord?”
Henry didn’t answer right away, considering how best to reply. Finally, he decided on the truth. “Because of South. We aren’t exactly friends just now; the fault is mostly mine.”
“No big surprise there.”
South and Montieth had once been his friends, but now Henry suspected they merely tolerated him, as one did any unwelcome relation. He’d been walking about telling himself it didn’t matter, to be thought of as a boorish, lesser version of Douglas.
“I suppose I wanted to be here when South vowed to love and only bed one woman for the rest of his life. Mrs. Culpepper is a lucky woman. She gets to be a countess.” South didn’t care whether he left an heir, and he’d often told Henry he had no wish to marry.
“Do you think that’s every woman’s goal in life, my lord? Marriage? To a title?”
“I do. Which is why I’ll have no trouble finding a wife one day, despite your remarks from last night, Miss Stitch.”
“I only said you would marry without affection, not that you wouldn’t marry at all.” Miss Stitch stopped in her tracks. “And in regard to my cousin, Southwell should be on his knees, thanking whatever god he prays to that someone of Honora’s caliber would deign to look in his direction, let alone marry him. She is far better than he deserves. Given his former reputation and that of gentlemen in general, it is only a matter of time before he disappoints her. He’ll have affairs, I’m sure, and lie to her about them. Gentlemen are expert liars.”
Suchvehemencecolored her tone. Even the leaf atop her head trembled in agitation. Miss Stitch didn’t have a high opinion of the opposite sex, it seemed; no wonder she worked so hard at keeping gentlemen at bay.
“What would you know of indiscretions, Miss Stitch? Oh, don’t tell me. You’ve had your own.”
Miss Stitch turned a brilliant shade of pink.
