“You never do,” I replied, then set off out the door and down the stairs.
DAVINA
The heat refused to leave my face. It was his nudity. I’d never been that close toanyundressed man. Surely, the effect would be the same regardless of the man, not merely brooding solicitors turned earls with unfairly soft seeming lips.
Except that not every man spoke to me, teased me, in the way Kit did.
Even my irritation with him was lessening. Because he was right. My life was luxurious by any standard. And the occupants of this well-loved farmhouse had no notion of such indulgences.
I’d noted the worry that melted into frustration in his sister’s eyes when she considered the prospect of four additional mouths to feed.
He was still wrong, though. I would never dream of insulting anyone in such a manner. But the reminder hadn’t been unwarranted.
Not every man would have lied to his family, a family he clearly adored, for my benefit either. I’d listened through the door as even the young girl in her hurt received a lie. He’d fibbed for me before, but those had been breezy white lies delivered to strangers. Now, he was destroying his own reputation to save mine. Not with inconsequential acquaintances but with his own mother, sister, nieces, and nephews.
The sound of the wagon pulling up outside soon broke me from my reverie. I watched from the window as Kit, Rory, Alfie, and a man who could only be Sydney pulled our trunks off the cart. Mr. Earnshaw was tall—which had been obvious from the length of his trousers—with close-cropped, dark-blond hair. And he was very handsome. I could see why an earl’s granddaughter would wed a farmer.
Kit grabbed my trunk and hauled it inside where I heard thethunkof his feet on the stairs. I met him at the door and ushered him inside. He set it in the corner and I rushed over to dig out one of the dresses I’d brought. They were all simpler than I usually wore, but the one in a heap on the floor was the plainest.
I found the tan day dress with ruching on the bust and pink rosettes dotting the cotton. It had a bit of embroidery on the hem, little swirls and flourishes, but nothing I would considerextravagant. It would have to do. The dark blue and the bright pink were too ostentatious for the setting.
“Can you—the buttons?” I asked and Kit nodded.
“Do you own any apparel you can don yourself?” he teased, not recognizing the truth of his question.
As he began with the line up my back, I wavered for a moment, wondering if I should let it pass. “Ladies do not dress themselves. It’s a point of pride. That is why we wear white so often as well. It’s difficult to maintain.”
“Oh. Is that something I’m supposed to notice? With the title?”
“I’m certain the ladies vying for your affections would appreciate the effort. And there are men who would. But no, it’s for other ladies to notice. You’re only to appreciate the effect.”
“I like the dress you were wearing before. Not Lizzie’s, the other one.” He finished with the last button and smoothed his hand along them in a way that had my breath catching.
“I’m afraid we may have seen the last of that dress. But it’s austere, I’m not sure what you see in it,” I replied as I turned to face him.
He was closer than I’d thought, inches from me. And there was something I couldn’t name in his gaze. “I think I prefer it because you were wearing it the first time you looked like a person.”
A breathless laugh escaped me. “What does that mean?”
“It’s like you said before. Most days, you’re a lady—too pretty, like a painting.”
“And in that dress, I’m…”
“Tangible,” he supplied, eyes gentle and warm when they met mine with a hint of shyness in the curve of his lip.
Something was different about this moment. Somehow, in the breath between my unspoken question and his answer, everything had changed. Kit hadn’t stepped back, hadn’t lookedaway, hadn’t brushed aside the sentiment in jest. And even stranger, I couldn’t find that I wanted him to.
Tentatively, his hand found my shoulder and brushed the hair aside. Then, impossibly slowly, he traced fingertips down my sleeve-covered arm and caught my elbow. He swallowed, throat bobbing above the open collar of his shirt, drawing my gaze.
“I like this one too. Still tangible,” he whispered, drawing my gaze back to his.
His fingers trailed to my wrist, then brushed across my palm before tangling with mine. My heart tripped over itself when he raised our locked fingers. He tugged them up to press against his chest, right above his heart, his hand resting atop mine.
I wasn’t versed in medicine, I didn’t know what an appropriate heart rate was, but I was certain that his, even beneath the thin fabric, was too fast and too erratic to be unaffected.
“You too,” I breathed. “Not a painting.”
“No.”
