Irritated, even, that Miss Birdwell didn’t notice.
Or, worse, she’d noticed, but didn’t care.
None of which he would mention and spoil her fun.
Besides, perhaps she had the right end of the stick, and he the wrong.
In fact, that was very likely the case.
Once they were seated, they faced each other across the table with, apparently, not a single thing to say.
“So,” she said.
“So,” he replied.
“You’re the sprig of an earl.”
“I am.”
“But not the heir.”
“No.”
“The spare, then.”
“Not even the spare, I’m afraid. I am a third son.” He snorted. “The entirely useless sort of son.”
“The third son of an earl.”
“A minor earl.”
Her head canted, and, at last, there was her smile again. “Are there minor earls?”
“Fair play.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You’re not entirely useless, though, are you?”
“Maybe not entirely, but…” It was a near thing, he didn’t need to say.
“You don’t mind everyone thinking so, do you?”
“Not particularly.”
She nodded. “That way no one has expectations. But…”
“But?”
She shook her head and settled back in her chair. “It’s not my place to say.”
Rhys sat forward, his elbows coming to rest on the table. “Say it.”
“To my way of thinking,” she said, “isn’t it good to carry some expectations on your shoulders? Because when someone puts expectations on you, it means something.”
“It does?”
“It means someone thinks highly enough of you to reckon you could live up to those expectations. That they believe in you.”
He’d never thought of it like that.
