“I wish I could take you with me everywhere I go drinking,” he lamented with feeling. “Such experiences would be infinitely better in your company.”
Damn him, how was she supposed to guard her heart against comments like that?
This was what she wanted, she reminded herself. This was the plan, working. He was supposed to fall in love with her, so that it would hurt all the more when she discarded him, as he had done to her.
But now, a dreadful little part of her wanted him to fall head over heels not to exact revenge, but because he finally saw her as a human worthy of love. Specifically, his love.
God only knew a shameful piece of her heart still held a foolish tendre for him.
“Why did you come to the matchmaking festival, if you weren’t looking to make a match?” she blurted out.
“My uncle commanded my presence, and I was hoping for another glimpse of…” He dropped his gaze and glanced away. “Nothing. I was chasing a ghost. Boyish folly.” His bright gaze flew back to hers and he smiled. “I much prefer finding you to the old dreams I left behind.”
She made a rude sound with her lips. “Don’t fling your rakish lines at me.”
“I have to try,” he protested. “What if they worked?”
She rolled her eyes and took a sip of her ale. “I don’t even want to know how often it does work.”
“None of my lines appear to work on you, so I’ve given up trying.”
“Then what do you call the nonsense you just spouted?”
“The truth.” His eyes held hers, his face serious. “I’ve had more fun in these stolen hours with you than all my prior days in Marrywell combined.”
The same was true for her, though she would not voluntarily admit it.
“What about you?” he asked. “Are you here to make a match?”
“No. I came to settle a score.”
“Ooh, intriguing. Is the score now settled to your satisfaction?”
“It’s a work in progress.”
“Isn’t everything?” he said in commiseration, and tapped his mug to hers. “To your success.”
She stared at him. If he had any idea what he’d just wished for…
“Did you start your novel last night?” he asked suddenly.
“Started and finished it,” she admitted. “I was up almost until dawn.”
“It was worth it?”
“Every sleepless minute.”
He looked pleased. “I wish I felt half as passionately about my dusty old history tomes.”
“I suspect you do,” she said wryly. “It’s just not very rakish to say so.”
“All right, you’ve caught me. I can quote to you from many of my books. Do you know the difference between Hoplitai and Psiloi warriors?”
“Please don’t tell me. Ignorance is bliss.”
He harrumphed in faux petulance. “What was your book about, then?”
“You’d probably find it as stimulating as I find ancient warfare.”
