Gabriel, her oldest brother, had once told her that a time would come when the landed gentry would have to choose to either change their ways or be left behind. Lockley had laughed at her when she’d mentioned it.
But as much as she admired Lord Hardwood’s forward-thinking, it was a sobering reminder that his first and foremost reason for lavishing attention on her was to obtain Mr. Meadowbrook’s fortune through marriage.
“Can you not accomplish that without marrying me?” Her voice caught on the last two words.
Marrying me…
All of their conversations seemed to come back to this. This issue was not only the elephant in the room but an entire menagerie.
“If I could, Allison, I would.” He sounded resigned.
But was marrying Allison really so very imperative for him to have a successful future? Was it really?
Allison was not the only young woman with a dowry. If he’d only open his mind a little and look around, he’d have no trouble finding a lady who was not only willing but eager to become the Countess of Hardwood.
The path was rockier here, and he clasped her hand from behind.
Her hand felt safe in his. His fingers wound around hers tightly, but not too tightly, and his palm felt warm against hers.
Furthermore, his touch made her feel not so alone.
She blinked as the thought struck her. As a teacher, she was going to be alone for a very long time… Dipping her chin, she made her way down the path carefully.
And she’d hold his hand now, but she’d best not become accustomed to it.
Because handsome gentlemen didn’t hold hands with spinsters who were six and twenty. Especially not those who’d done what she had.
One Wrong Step
“Almost there.” Hunt broke the silence that had fallen between them. They’d been having a perfectly good conversation until the subject of her father came up again.
And yet, Hunt glanced down. She allowed him to continue holding her hand even in the places where the trail leveled out. Not that she’d required his assistance otherwise. Her footsteps were sure, and she hiked down as though she’d been raised hiking up and down such cliffs.
The trail looped around, allowing for the first clear vista of the frothing waves breaking onto the sand below, and she paused so she could take it in.
“The beaches south of here are safer for swimming—no cliffs to negotiate. Unfortunately, our beach can turn deadly in a matter of minutes if the tide comes in high.”
“I prefer the cliffs,” she observed.
As did most young people.
“As long as one respects the risks, knows the tides, and isn’t foolish enough to swim alone.” In that instant, he was grateful it was wintertime. It prevented him from having to worry about this young woman taking his warnings as a challenge and venturing into the sea on her own
“I know,” she said.
Rather than argue, he returned to the original topic he’d mentally mapped out the night before.
Or, to be more accurate, carefully calculated, as she’d accused him.
“When did you realize you enjoyed cooking and baking?” he asked. “Did your mother teach you?”
“No.”
Rather than expand on her answer, she remained silently staring into the distance. And as she gazed out at the blue and gray of the unpredictable sea, Hunt studied her.
She is too good for me.
It struck him out of nowhere. Why had his earlier confidence abandoned him?
