Who am I trying to fool?He thought sourly.I know the exact reason.
He poured another cup. When he turned back, she was seated at the table, expectant.
“I can’t be long,” she said. “Maggie’s waiting for me. Emma’s restless tonight.”
“Who could blame her?” Simon murmured. “I heard what happened. She could have drowned.”
Jenny shivered. “Don’t say that.”
They drank in silence for a while.
“Do you think the duke will marry Lady Constance?” Jenny asked at last, watching him over the rim of her cup. Her eyes always caught his—soft and serious, impossible to look away from.
He wasn’t sure when he’d fallen in love with her. It was an easy thing, like slipping on a pair of old, well-made boots—comfortable, familiar.
Simon immediately felt a rush of guilt at thinking of poor Jenny as a pair ofboots. But the fact remained that he thought of her every single day.
He was fairly sure she did not think ofhim, except perhaps as the gangly estate steward whom she’d known since they were both children. When had the gulf opened up between them?
“No,” Simon answered firmly. “She’s not right for him.”
“They all seem to think differently. He’s a gentleman, and she’s a lady. It’s a perfect fit,” she added, her voice softening.
Simon studied her thoughtfully. The scrubbed wood of the table seemed to stretch out endlessly between them. The air seemed to have thickened and warmed. He shifted his hand forward, as if reaching for her, but of course, there was too much distance between them.
“That’s hardly a recipe for happiness,” he said at last. “A gentleman marrying a lady. Besides, who is to say who is a gentleman and who is a lady?”
Jenny smiled at him, almost pityingly, as if he’d missed some great joke.
“You know a lady when you see one. Nursemaids and governesses aren’t ladies. That’s just how the world is. Stepping out of our place never ends well, however unfair it may seem.”
He frowned. “But—”
“Life is what it is,” she said softly, cutting him off. “Not what we wish it could be. Perhaps we’d all be happier if we could accept that.”
Simon fell silent. Words crowded his throat, but none would come.
Jenny rose, leaving her empty cup behind.
“I should go,” she murmured. “Maggie will be waiting.”
“Jenny—”
“I should go,” she repeated, more firmly this time. “Thank you for the hot milk, Simon. That was kind.”
Then just like that, she was gone, leaving him alone with the dying fire and the bitter taste of what he hadn’t said.
Chapter Eighteen
The rain, thankfully, had let up. The ground was sodden, naturally, but the sun had come out, and puddles shimmered like broken mirrors, rainbows glinting in every ripple.
The village fair, held each year in the centre of the town, was already alive with bustle. Stalls and tables crowded the square, wooden planks laid down to form a maze of makeshift pathways. They were treacherous—slick and uneven—and one wrong step would send a person sliding off into the mud.
Neil kept his footing easily, striding the length of the square with his usual purpose, eyes sharp for anything amiss. He expected nothing out of order; Simon had supervised the setting-up.
Emma would be arriving soon and was currently dressing for the day. Of course, Jenny had been left with her, and Maggie too. Neil’s chest tightened at the memory of Maggie. He could not seem to stop recalling how she’d stared up at him, her eyes wide, face shadowed by moonlight. He recalled the warmth of her skin and how he had almost felt her pulse hammering in the side of her neck.
It had been wrong, of course—thoroughly wrong—to place her in such a position. He cursed himself for seeking her out on the terrace. Had he frightened her? No. Maggie Winter was not easily frightened. But he had, at the very least, made her uncomfortable.
