Miss Fox tiptoed around another shallow puddle. “My father won a share in a small press a few years ago.”
“Wona share?”
“In a card game.”
“Your father is a baron, correct?”
She nodded. “A baron, yes, and a publisher.” A light blush pinked her cheeks. “My father has his fingers in any number of pies on any given day.”
“It was my understanding that gentlemen don’t enter into trade.”
“As a general rule, they don’t. But my father isn’t one to be hemmed in by Society’s rules, and they indulge him, because he’s, well, he’s a reliably entertaining dinner guest.”
Jake sensed a quiet conflict between father and daughter. In the interest of keeping clear of those murky waters, he asked, “Do you take an interest in the press?”
Her eyes, an opaque gray, darted up to meet his. She really had the most direct way of taking in a person. “Our secret?”
He nodded.
“I love it. At first, it was a bit of a lark, but one day I began sorting through a pile of submissions and didn’t look up for three hours. The written word interests me, not only for its ability to communicate ideas, but for its intersection of beauty and power. Take poetry, for instance, the fewer the words—well chosen, of course—the more powerfully it communicates its message. Fascinating, no?”
This was the longest string of words he’d ever heard Miss Fox produce. Encouraging. “Might I read any publications the press produces?”
“Oh, I, um, I doubt it,” she stammered, her eloquence gone. “We don’t publish for the serious-minded, such as yourself. Ours is lighter fare.”
Her gaze, once clear and direct, now skittered away to study the path ahead of them. He wasn’t sure what brought about the sudden change. “You are a most unexpected young lady.”
“Young?” Her brow lifted toward the blue sky above. “Society would hardly characterize me asyoung. I turned five and twenty on my last name day.”
“Which makes you an aged crone?”
She gave a little shrug. “Perhaps not, but it does place me solidly on the shelf, and a decided spinster in theton’s eyes.”
“Do you care how you’re seen by them?”
“Not in the least.”
His eyebrows creased together, and, of course, Miss Fox caught the movement.
“Does that shock you, my lord? If I cared, I would be a most unhappy person. Besides, everyone can’t be who they appear on the surface, or the world would be a very dull place.”
“I feel certain you are exactly who you purport to be.”
“Do you?” Another laugh escaped her. She knew how to make a laugh sound like a chore. “And who am I?”
“A Society miss with a speckless reputation and a keen, observant eye.”
“On the prowl for a husband?”
His brow lifted in surprise. “My apologies—”
“I tease you, my lord,” she interrupted. “Well, not entirely. To be on the prowl for a husband is the lot of an unmarried lady. There seems to be no way of getting around it.”
He resisted the paternal impulse to pat her hand in comfort. “May I ask your given name?” It was the sort of question a gentleman courting a lady might ask.
“Anne,” she replied simply, the sound of it curt to his ears.
“It suits you.”
