“Thank you for your kind words, Mr. Finch,” she replied, accepting his statement as the compliment he’d intended. Stepping closer, Miss Barrows brushed off the remnant snow from his shoulders and placed the hat on his head.
The innocent movement drew them close, her skirts brushing across the tips of his boots. What had begun in jest shifted, the world quieting around them as Finch held her brown eyes. They were quite magnificent and shone with the brightness of her loving heart. The finest eyes he’d ever seen.
Miss Barrows was like the winter sun. That joy and laughter glowed from within, chasing away the gloom of the world and casting it in a golden hue. Even her hair was fiery and bright, matching the lady in a manner that no brunette or blonde could manage. Her curls fought against the pins and ribbons adorning them, and Finch’s fingers itched to twist one of those unruly locks and see if it was as soft as its mistress.
Where had his friend gone? And when had this lovely creature replaced her?
Finch’s gaze dropped to her lips, and they tugged at him like a magnet, drawing him in with blissful promises as though one touch might fill him with the same brightness. His breath caught in his lungs, and Finch stared at her, realizing how desperately he longed to kiss her. His heart whispered to him that the joy Miss Barrows spoke of would be found there. With her.
Shifting closer, Finch drew near enough to feel her breath tickling his cheeks; her eyes widened, but the curl of her lips told him it was not from fear. Her lids slid closed, and she stilled, waiting for him to close the distance. To…claim her as his own?
Finch’s stomach wrenched, his heartbeat stilling as frost stole across his skin. His throat closed on him, and though he ought to move away, his feet were fixed to the ground. Finch’s lungs screamed as he realized he wasn’t breathing.
Lewis Finch could not afford to marry and never would. He’d known that from the moment his father had sentenced him to this life of eternal bachelorhood, and yet here he’d raised the hopes of a dear lady. Giving her reason to believe him free to court her.
Thoughts racing, Finch tried to calculate some manner in which he could pursue this. But even if they moved to the country, his meager funds would not support them. His professional options had only dwindled with time, and even if he were to begin again tomorrow, it would take years for him to gain enough of a position to afford a family, assuming he could; many younger sons remained unmarried for just such a reason.
Finch knew this. He’d spent years thinking this through, and he’d known that truth. Accepted it. Until Miss Barrows had appeared. And now, both of their hearts were at risk because he’d been too selfish to keep his distance.
“I must return to Avebury Park,” he said, forcing his feet away from her.
Miss Barrows’ eyes snapped open, her brows raising as she stared at him. “Pardon?”
“I promised Mr. Kingsley I would assist him with some business this afternoon, and it slipped my mind.” The lie came quickly to his lips, and Finch moved back the way they’d come.
“Oh,” she murmured, drawing her hands beneath her cloak and casting her gaze to the ground.
Finch’s chest squeezed at the sight of her dejected posture, and his feet nearly carried him back to her side. But distance was best.
“I do apologize…” he whispered, his throat seizing against the words. Finch stared at her, warring between the need to flee and the need to comfort her. To make her smile once more as she had done for him. “I…”
But what could he do? Better to break her heart a little now than ruin her future, and the best he had to offer her was a clean break. So, like a coward, he turned heel and fled. Finch felt her gaze on his back, burning holes through his jacket, and he pled for absolution.
Chapter 21
Standing on the cobblestones, Felicity gazed up at the church that stood center stage in Bristow. The spires pointed upwards, as though silently pleading for mankind to turn their thoughts heavenward. With a sky choked with clouds, there was not light enough to catch the stained glass, but candles lit inside the nave gave flickering hints of color.
The bell rang out from above, announcing the passing of another hour, and Felicity wondered why time was determined to march so slowly. Aunt Imogene’s orders were quite explicit, and Felicity would not risk irritating the lady further by returning to Buxby Hall a moment sooner. But there was so little for her to do.
Felicity meandered along, passing by the village square, which sat silent, waiting for spring and the sellers’ stalls to return. Even the inn was quiet at present, as the locals were still toiling and no coaches had stopped. The world itself seemed to be waiting.
Two days. A full forty-eight hours had passed since Mr. Finch’s hasty departure, and Felicity was no more at peace with what had happened than when he’d fled from her. And there was no other way to describe how he’d stumbled and slid in his need to distance himself after that almost-kiss.
Yet again, Felicity replayed that moment, scrutinizing every detail as she tried to understand. Her feelings were in no doubt, for she had nearly leapt into his arms. She shifted the basket, which held the items Aunt Imogene had asked her to retrieve (including the marzipan they’d forgotten during that fateful outing), and Felicity sighed at her foolishness.
Had she truly closed her eyes and leaned into him? That had been as subtle as hanging a sign around her neck, begging him to kiss her. But even now, she didn’t think she’d been wrong. The look in Mr. Finch’s eyes had spurred her to do so. Even with flocks of suitors, no one had ever gazed upon her with such admiration and warmth. Or rather, such a genuine display of the emotions.
Surely he had felt the same pull towards her, the same desire. Felicity couldn’t have been the only one to feel the promise of something wonderful thrumming between them.
Kicking a foot out, she scattered the snow ahead of her, wishing her thoughts could leave it be. For Aunt Imogene’s sake, if not Felicity’s own, she ought to turn her thoughts to something else.
It did not help matters that the first of her replies had arrived today. Though the job of choosing her steward and man of business was far from done, Felicity was quite pleased with the first applicant. It was hard to tell much from a few lines, but Mr. Baldwin had already shown himself superior to her previous staff. And while such news ought to drive her thoughts to finances, Felicity’s thoughts were fixed on the gentleman who’d recommended him. Which led her back to the conundrum at hand.
“Miss Barrows,” said a gentleman, giving her a deep bow, and Felicity gave him a vague smile and nod without bothering to stop. She was in no mind to be conversational at present unless the other wished to discuss Mr. Lewis Finch. But as Aunt Imogene had already proven by barring Felicity from Buxby Hall for the afternoon, even those who loved her most had limited patience on that subject.
Felicity continued on her way, but paused as the fellow called out again, “Miss Barrows?”
Taking in a steadying breath, she turned and smiled at the gentleman. There was no need to make him bear the brunt of her bruised heart. “Good afternoon, sir.”
