“Yes, it is lovely and I should like to see more,” she managed.
The Duke’s smile was secretive, an appreciation of a joke only he knew. They left behind the formal flower beds and lawns, descending stone steps, and following a weaving path among trees and statuary. At every turn, Keaton walked with the confidence of the sighted, identifying the subject of the statues and which of his ancestors had purchased them or had them commissioned. Finally, they walked through a grove of oaks that had the air of deep antiquity.
“The grove has been here since long before Westvale,” Keaton explained, “more than a thousand years, it is said. In among the trees there are stones, relics of the first people to live here. For that reason, I will not walk among the trees, but you are welcome to.”
“I… I don't understand,” Georgia puzzled.
“The stones are scattered and change their position weekly as dirt is washed away by rain, or tree roots push or pull them. I cannot memorize their locations and find them strenuous to navigate. The path is one I know, but among the trees is dark to me.”
Georgia was trying to catch a narrow glimpse into the grove; she thought she could hear running water.
“Is there a waterfall nearby?” she asked.
“There is a stream that comes down from the hills and runs through the grove. It falls into a pool at the bottom of a dell. That is what you can hear. I... used to swim there as a boy.”
The air beneath the oak branches was warm and close. The notion of cooling her feet in water was an attractive one.
“I could guide you,” she offered.
Keaton shook his head firmly.
“You are welcome to explore, but I will not.”
He does not trust me. But then he does not know me. Not yet.
Georgia felt a twinge of sadness at Keaton's demonstration of distrust. It seemed like they had been getting on after their earlier argument.
“May I ask you something, Miss... I am sorry,Georgia?” he began.
“You may not,” she replied, smiling quietly.
Keaton frowned, and she realized he had missed her joke, not hearing it in her voice or being able to see her expression.
“A jest. Of course you may,” she answered.
He smiled thinly. “Ah, I see. I wanted to ask whether I could... look at your face.”
Georgia frowned. “I presume there is a meaning to that beyond the obvious.”
“For me, looking is achieved via other senses. In this case, my hands. I would simply run my fingers across your face to understand and visualize your features. To know what you look like, that is to say.”
Georgia grinned, dejection dissipating at this gesture.
If he did not wish to be on friendly terms at least, he would not care what I looked like.
“Very well,” she lifted her chin, “look away.”
That had a different meaning for the sighted, so she amended her words.
“I mean. Please look,” she stammered, blushing.
He stood before her and raised his hands, padding his fingertips to her forehead. She fought to control her breathing as he grazed his fingers down her face, following the line of her cheeks and nose, touching her lips, then her chin and neck. As his cold hands ran down the sides of her throat, he hesitated, pausing. Georgia felt her heart hammering in her chest, and the thought occurred that he would be able to feel her pulse. She gulped, looking into his handsome face.
His lips were inches from hers. It would be the smallest movement for her to lift her chin, rise to her tiptoes, and press her lips against his.
I want to, but I cannot. Not again. It will confirm to him that I seek to manipulate him, using my femininity to trap him...
“Do I make you nervous?” he asked softly.
