“I suppose,” she said wistfully, “it is the most glorious feeling in the world to fly along as fast as your horses can gallop.”
Or simply to fly. She had a recurring dream in which she was a bird, free to soar into the blue and ride the wind.
“I have a curious suspicion,” he said, “that my first impressions of you were quite, quite inaccurate, Miss Osbourne.”
His words jolted her into a realization that she had actually beentalkingwith him—and even rather enjoying herself. And already they were passing through the village. They were halfway to Miss Honeydew’s cottage.
“Your silence speaks loudly and accusingly,” he said as he touched his whip to the brim of his hat and she raised her free hand to wave to Mr. Calvert, who was walking along the village street in the direction of his home. “Obviously you believe that your first impressions of mewereaccurate.”
Didshe? He enjoyed spending his time flirting with young ladies. He owned a racing curricle and had raced it all the way from London to Brighton. She had seen nothing that suggested there was any substance to his character—though hehadsat with Miss Honeydew last evening and been kind to her.
“You still dislike me,” he said with a sigh, though it seemed to her that he was amused rather than upset in any way.
“I do not—” she began.
“Ah, but I believe you do,” he said. “Do you not teach your pupils that it is wicked to lie? Is it something about my looks?”
“You know very well,” she said sharply, “that your looks are perfect.”
It was only after the words were out that she wished, wished,wishedthat she could recall them. Goodness, she must sound like a besotted schoolgirl.
“Oh, I say,” he said, laughing, “is that true? My eye color is not effeminate?”
“You know very well it is not,” she said indignantly. How had the conversation suddenly taken this uncomfortably personal turn?
“I have a cousin,” he told her, “who has the same color eyes. I have always thought they look so much more appropriate on her.”
“I would not know,” she said, “since I do not know the lady.”
“It is not my looks, then,” he said, “unless you happen to have a bias against perfection. There would be little logic in that, though. It must be my character, then.”
“I do not dislike you,” she protested. “There is nothing I find objectionable about your character—except that you do not take anything seriously.”
“That,” he said, “is very akin to those annoying pronouncements with which certain people preface nasty remarks: ‘I do not wish to be critical, old chap, but…’ Ah, the condemnation in thatbut. And in yourexcept that. You think me a shallow man, then.”
The words had not been phrased as a question, but he was waiting for an answer. Well, she was not going to deny it merely because good manners suggested that she ought. Hehadasked.
“Yes, my lord,” she said, gazing along the road and wondering when Miss Honeydew’s cottage would come into view. “I do.”
“I suppose,” he said, “you would not believe me if I told you I sometimes entertain a serious thought or two and that I am not entirely shallow?”
She hesitated.
“It would be presumptuous of me to call you a liar,” she said.
“Why?” He had dipped his head even closer to hers so that for a moment before he returned his attention to the road she could feel his breath on her cheek.
“Because I do not know you,” she said.
“Ah,” he said. “What would you say, Miss Osbourne, if I told you that despite my admission of a moment ago, I still think you beautiful beyond belief but also harsh in your judgments and without feelings, incapable of deep affection or love?”
She bristled.
“I would say that you knownothingabout me or my life,” she said, trying in vain to move farther to her side of the seat.
“Precisely,” he said, a note of satisfaction in his voice. “We do not know each other at all, do we? How do you know that I am not worth knowing? How do I know that youare?”
She gripped the rail beside her more tightly.
