I gaped in surprise. “What about my nose?”
“Your nostrils flare when you lie.”
“They do not!”
He threw his head back with a laugh. “You wanted me to tell you, so I told you. I find it quite endearing, actually.” He winked at me in a way that I could only interpret as flirtatious.
I jerked my attention away from his charming smile. “In that case, I will try never to do it again.”
He laughed before regarding me seriously. “Well, now that you have promised never to lie to me again,youmustanswer my question honestly. Why do you hate pink?”
I swallowed and wiped my palms on my skirts. No one had ever asked me that question before, and I wasn’t entirely certain I knew the answer. It was difficult to explain. The explanation was somewhere deep inside my heart, but I usually kept the lid shut.
I twisted my fingers together as I thought about what to say. “When I was a young girl, I actually adored the color. I made sure to wear it every day, whether as my dress, gloves, the trim on my bonnet, or a bow in my hair. My parents even had my bedchamber painted in a soft shade of pink to match my pillows and blankets.” I glanced up at Owen to see his reaction. He looked mildly surprised, but deeply interested.
“Shortly before my parents left for their final visit here to Kellaway Manor, my mother had commissioned a new pink dress for me with the modiste. It was delivered a few hours before my parents were expected to return home, so I wore it with the intention of surprising her. When she didn’t return to see it . . . ” I looked down, suddenly feeling very self conscious. “I don’t know, I suppose the color just wasn’t so pretty anymore. Nothing was pretty anymore. The color transformed in my eyes to something that meant hurt, and disappointment, and that my mother wasn’t coming home. I hated it for that. I left it to rest with her, I suppose. Our favorite color was something we shared, and I felt guilty at the thought of enjoying it without her.”
I felt a lump in my throat, and I found myself wishing that Owen would just laugh at me. Then I could be angry instead of sad. I was waiting for him to say something, but he seemed to be waiting for me to look at him. I laughed softly at myself. “I know. It’s ridiculous.”
I peeked up at his face. The amusement I had hoped for was missing. Instead, his expression held a solemn understanding. I stuffed my emotions down into my heart, as deeply as I could. Everything that I had buried deep within my heart over the years was coming too close to the surface—dangerously close. Eventually, nothing else would fit.
Finally, Owen broke the silence. “No. It’s not ridiculous at all. No matter how beautiful something is, there can still be an associated memory that causes pain. To some extent, I understand what that feels like.”
I took a breath as relief flooded through me. He understood. And he didn’t look at me with pity either. He never did.
I gave him a grateful smile that he returned.
I wanted to ask him what had happened to make him understand, but I couldn’t find the words. What was the beautiful thing that had hurt him? Was it a woman? Had he been in love before? The idea dug into my chest with sharp discomfort. If he had, I didn’t want to know. It was none of my business.
“I’m sorry for insisting that you take that pink rose,” he said. “I wouldn’t have, had I known how much it hurt you.”
I shook my head. “No—the rose is just fine. I . . . I like it now.” I smiled up at him reassuringly, and gasped.
He was staring at my nose.
“Owen!” I quickly used my hand to cover it. “I am not lying!”
He tipped his head back with a laugh. “I’m sorry, but I had to be sure.”
CHAPTER 16
When the men joined the ladies in the drawing room after dinner, Mr. Everard stood to sing a number while Mrs. Kellaway played the pianoforte. His voice came out gruffer in song, and was not, I must admit, a pleasant sound. Owen and I locked eyes in the middle of his performance and the laughter I had been holding back suddenly threatened to break loose. I had to bite my lip to keep it at bay. Owen’s mouth was clamped shut, but his eyes pooled with tears.
After the agony of Mr. Everard’s performance, Mrs. Kellaway cleared her throat and called the room to attention. “As you know, my garden party is just a few days away. I have made most of the arrangements with the staff, but I’m still undecided on whether to serve lemonade, orangeade, or punch. What do you think, Annette?”
I sat up straighter in surprise. She had never asked my opinion on matters like this before, and I felt quite unqualified to answer. “Well, I have never had orangeade before,” I said in a hesitant voice. “It might be a lovely way to exhibit the merits of your orangery.”
She smiled. “Those were precisely my thoughts. Owen discouraged the idea because he thinks it will strip the orangetrees bare for the rest of the season. He wanted you to be able to enjoy them while you’re here.”
I glanced at Owen, who sat back on the sofa with his arms crossed. His gaze flickered to mine. He seemed content just to observe the conversation.
“That is very thoughtful.” I swallowed, forcing myself to keep my attention on Mrs. Kellaway. “But I already had the opportunity to taste an orange. If I am here all summer, I might very well strip the trees bare all on my own.” I smiled. “I imagine they will go to better use at your party.”
Mrs. Kellaway laughed. “Perhaps you are right. I will continue to think on it.” She gave a soft smile as she studied my face.
Mrs. Everard sat forward. “I was thinking that we ought to use this time to introduce Miss Downing to some of the eligible gentlemen in our neighborhood. There is one in particular, Mr. Baines, who will be attending the party.” She glanced at her daughter. “Would they not make a lovely match?”
Mrs. Kellaway’s eyes lit up. “They would, indeed.”
