“I agree.”
“I’ve never met a child who wanted anything but a sweet treat.”
“They like that as well.”
“I was told to stay in the nursery and to keep quiet. Miss Edgeworth writes as if children have a curiosity we should encourage.”
There was a telling statement.
“Did you never rebel, Cassandra? Or throw a tantrum?”
“Why?”
Her response puzzled him. “Because you were a child and there is more to life than four walls and a book.”
“Books were my life,” she answered. “They were my friends.”
And they had nurtured her vibrant spirit, keeping it alive. If he’d had MP Holwell in front of him, he would have tied the man into a knot and thrown him into an ocean.
For all of her wealth, Cassandra’s life had been remarkably sheltered. No wonder she’d been considered such an oddity in Cornwall, where there was fresh air and open fields and a more relaxed manner. London hadn’t been the salvation she’d believed of it. She’d just experienced a bit more freedom there.
A question came to her eye. “Why are you staring at me?”
“I’m staring?”
“Yes, as if you are trying to unlock my mind.”
Perceptive as usual.
Soren leaned against her. “I am,” he admitted. “Talk to me about the books that kept your imagination alive in your childhood.”
She blinked as if surprised. “Why would you want to know that?”
“Because they were important to you. I was never much of a reader but I did enjoy the Roman myths.”
“I liked them as well.”
“Which was your favorite?” he asked, and what followed was the first conversation between them where he felt she was completely herself. There wasn’t anything she hadn’t read, and his respect for her intellect grew. Especially when she said, “My own education is spotty. Father was not one for spending money on teaching women very much of anything that couldn’t snare them a husband. I didn’t mind dancing and learning French, but the lessons on handwork? You’d best not lose a button, my lord, or you will find yourself lacking.”
“That’s unfortunate, my lady, because you are very hard on my buttons.” He indicated his breeches.
She lifted a brow. “Am I, my lord?”
“Terribly hard. Fortunately, I can sew on a button.”
Once again, his reward was her laughter. Sweet, musical, and still slightly rusty from disuse—and he could not resist her. He reached for his wife.
“Soren, the driver—”
“Cannot see us.” His lips were almost upon hers.
“But he might hear us.”
“Not if we are quiet.” He kissed her then, and to his everlasting gratitude, she set the book aside to kiss him back properly.
Or perhaps she realized his buttons were fair close to popping and she wished to save him a bit of sewing.
There was only one way overland into Cornwall, and that was crossing the Tamar.
