Yeah, if they were planning to go into business together.
“I believe insta-love is theonlyway to experience that kind of love, if you can even call it ‘love,’” Amelia said, staring at her drink again, as if the answer to a mystery lay at the bottom of the goblet—a psychic reading wine dregs instead of tea leaves. “Once you truly know a person, you inevitably become so disillusioned that you can’t possibly be in love in that magical way you were when you met. The quirks you once thought charming become annoying. The positive traits you imagined you could coax out of him in time simply aren’t there. The negative traits become impossible to ignore. You realize he’s never gonna step up and give you what you need, and as time goes by, you’re compromising more and more, until you’re getting nothing back. So, if you’re going to fall in love, get those giddy, swoony feels…” At that, she looked right into his eyes, consciously or subconsciously—he didn’t know which. “Ithasto be at the start, and you have to enjoy it while it lasts, while the thought of the person is still way beyond anything they can possibly live up to.And just hope that whatever stage of the relationship comes next is enough, even if it’ll never be as good.”
“So cynical, Miss Bennett with two Ts.” He stretched out on the rug and stared at the chandelier, which was one hundred percent a maneuver designed to unlock their gazes before he took advantage and kissed her. Maybe it was the Sauternes, but he had decidedly “giddy, swoony feels” for her. He could swear she’d leaned towards him a few minutes ago with a glimmer of intent in her eyes, but like the twit he was, by the time he’d realized, he was halfway to his feet to restock the fire. “Do I detect an element of personal experience?”
“I recently broke up with a guy I thought was ‘The One’ the moment I laid eyes on you. I mean,him. The moment I laid eyes onhim.”
It took a lot of effort on Tom’s part not to smile. “I’m sorry for your break-up,” he said, with a heroic attempt at sincerity. “Were you together long?”
“Six years. It took me six years to realize how flawed my initial judgment was. Falling in love is fun and all, but it’s not a good way to pick a life partner. I can’t imagine trusting that feeling again.”
“Six years is a decent innings. Didn’t get to six months with mylastgirlfriend.” He realized he’d said that as if Amelia was hisnextgirlfriend. That last girlfriend had thought it a great novelty to date a viscount, but it swiftly wore off when she discovered how dilapidated his “stately” home was, and how close he was to being as penniless as the next guy. At least Tom could be sure any future girlfriends wouldn’t be interested in him for his connections or landholdings. “You haven’t dated since your break-up?”
“I’ve been on a total of two dates in the last year, both after heavy coercion from friends, but all I can think about is how my future self will look back after the relationship inevitablyfails and see how impossibly naïve and optimistic I was, right from the start. That all the signs were there and I stupidly—or intentionally—missed them. I spent both these dates actively looking for the signs of fraying—the way he holds his fork or clicks his tongue or interrupts me or whatever, and thinking, ‘Is that the thing I’ll come to loathe?’”
“Let me get this straight.” Tom linked his hands behind his head. “You’re scared to start a relationship because you’re worried about how it’ll end. It’s not just that you don’t believe in love at first sight. You don’t believe in love at all.”
“Oh God, I think you’re right,” she said, physically deflating. “Idon’tbelieve in love anymore. Not for me. For Elizabeth and Emma and Anne, sure. But not … damn!”
“And yet, you’ve crossed an ocean on a pilgrimage of devotion to one of the world’s most celebrated romance writers. So perhaps you still want to believe.” And perhaps, he thought, swirling his glass and watching the syrupy liquid cling to the sides, perhaps he also wanted to believe.
“Maybe I do,” she said with faux defensiveness. “Maybe I haven’t figured everything out yet.” The way she boldly met his gaze… It seemed like another challenge. Only, he wasn’t sure what the challenge was, and whether she was issuing it to him or herself. “Does anyone, ever?” she added, fanning herself. “Are you feeling hot, all of a sudden? I’m feeling hot.” Her cheeks were lookinga lotrosier. “Jane Austen must have had a lot figured out, the way she wrote.”
“Ah, and she never married, yeah? So maybe that’s a clue.”
“She was proposed to once, long before she was published.” Amelia stripped off her coat with a speed that suggested an urgency of an entirely different sort. And now Tom realized that lying down while she sat cross-legged, looking down at him with her hair falling over her cheeks, was as intimate as eyeballing her face to face. Like he was lying in bed and she was leaning overhim, which wasn’t a terrible thought. If he reached up and pulled her down…
“She said yes, straightaway,” Amelia continued, and Tom had to mentally shake himself to focus on her words and not her lips, which seemed to have reddened along with the rest of her.Jane Austen’s proposal. She was talking about Jane Austen’s marriage proposal. “But the next morning she changed her mind. No one knows why. She was twenty-six, so it was a bold call for a woman of her era. The guy went on to have ten kids with the next woman he asked, so it was just as well for the rest of us that she didn’t.”
“Good for her. I think back to the girlfriends I had in my twenties, and I shudder to think how miserable we’d have been if we’d jumped in and got married. I know plenty of people do it happily enough, but…”
“‘It is better to know as little as possible of the defects of the person with whom you are to pass your life,’” Amelia quoted in an endearing faux English accent. “Pride and Prejudice.”
“Ha! You see? Who says that?”
“Charlotte, Elizabeth’s best friend. ‘Happiness in marriage is entirely a matter of chance.’ That’s another one of hers. Even in Austen, the truly happy relationships are the exceptions. Oh man, I’ve turned into a Charlotte!” She playfully swiped at him. “Stop destroying my Austen fantasies, you heartless rogue.”
“I do believe you’re shattering your own illusions.” Oh, the irony of them whining about the impossibility of love while he was fighting an urge to carry her back to the four-poster Chippendale in the guest room that she’d sprawled so magnificently over… Abruptly, he sat up, pulled the cork out of the open bottle and went to refill her glass.
“Wait, don’t!” she said, suddenly panicked. “Sorry, I just…”
“Are you … feeling all right?”
“Fine.” She removed her jumper with the same urgency of her earlier strip, leaving her in a thin, fitting top that revealed curves he’d until now only been able to guess at. And his guesswork hadn’t come near to doing justice to the reality. She wasn’t about to make her apologies and leave, was she? It turned out he rather desperately wanted her to stay. When was the last time he’d had a conversation that wasn’t about chattels, boxwood hedging, or plumbing? She could play Elizabeth to his Darcy any day.
A high-pitched wail shot through the room, and Amelia gasped. Tom touched her knee. “Just the wind.”
“That was thewind?”
“It must have turned northwest. Miss Havisham likes to play tunes sometimes. In a gale, the whole place turns into an off-key pipe organ. Some days, you can have entire conversations with the chimneys. They hum and moan and whistle. Oh God, I’m starting to sound mad.”
Amelia hugged herself, looking around. “You can almost feel her sadness.”
“Amelia, just so you know, I can get Duncan to drop you into town whenever you like, and I can pick you up tomorrow and bring you back to get your car. It’s completely up to you how long you would like to stay.”
“I’d like to stay,” she blurted. “Uh, for a while longer. At least until I finish this drink.”
“Good. I’m glad,” he said, dropping the playful vibe and letting the sincerity show in his voice. “This is nice.”
