There was no one out there. It was too cold but the air felt good to Char. It made her think of something else other than her own disappointment.
Whitridge was married. It should not bother her. Everyone wanted her to marry his brother, the one with the money and the title.
However, she’d formed a bit of affection for Whitridge. He’d been kind to her yesterday. He’d believed her story.
How she had spun that into his having personal interest in her, even an attraction, was a bit unsettling. Char had prided herself on being sensible. Sarah had warned her a woman must be to survive in this world—
“What are you doing out here alone?” Whitridge asked from the door behind her.
Char moved away from him and the light coming from the windows, toward the shadows. “I needed air.”
“It is cold out here. You need a coat.”
She nodded. Her teeth might start chattering soon, but she did not go inside.
“Something is the matter,” he said. A statement, as if he knew her—and he didn’t. Not any more than she knew him.
Char faced him. “You are married.”
“I am widowed.”
That was not the answer she expected. “I did not know. I’m sorry. That’s terrible.”
He came up beside her and leaned a hip against the stone balustrade. “It is,” he agreed, “although my wife died seven years ago.”
“That is sad.”
“Yes, I loved her. Very much.”
Was it possible to be jealous of a dead woman? To want to believe Whitridge could say that of her?
“Who told you?” he asked.
“The duke mentioned it.”
“Ah,” Whitridge answered as if he had expected it. “He said I was married. In the present?”
“I took it that way,” she said. “I may have jumped to a conclusion. I—” She broke off, feeling culpable and silly.
He looked out over Lord Vetter’s night dark garden. She placed her hand on the balustrade, pressing her fingers into the rough stone... having a feeling for what he was about to say, and not wanting to hear it.
“My brother is a good man, my lady. An excellent man. You could do no better.”
Her chest grew heavy. She had to concentrate on breathing.
Whitridge pushed away from the railing. “That is what I have to say. I—” Now he stopped.
“You what?” she prodded.
He lowered his voice and said not unkindly, “I didn’t come to England for a wife.”
“I know.” She gathered herself. “We barely know each other.”
“True.”
She tried to smile.
He didn’t. Instead, he reached out and lightly caressed her check with the backs of his fingers and then he pulled away as if touching her scalded. “We need to return inside.”
