She cleared her throat. “There are several species that thrill me, but honestly, the bit I enjoy most is to simply observe thebehaviorof the birds—all of them. Any bird will put on quite a show given enough time. They forage for food and materials, they build nests, they sit on eggs, they fight, they migrate in formation. Nothing will make your own problems seem inconsequential like watching a baby bird flop from his nest, thrash about on the forest floor, and work out the very significant challenge oflearning tofly.”
“I’d never thought about it,” he said, “but you make it sound fascinating.” She could feel his gaze on her profile. She looked at her gloved hands.
“Have you ever seen a mother bird light on the edge of her nest, her beak filled with worms, ready to feed her hatchlings?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said, “I suppose I have. In my tree-climbing days as a boy.”
“Do you remember what happens, when she lands on the nest?”
“Well,” he considered, “if I remember correctly, the babies cause a great fuss. Lots of squawking?”
She looked up. “Yes, very good. The chicks in the nest go mad, chirping and tweeting, their heads thrown back, tiny beaks open wide to the sky. It’s almost deafening, the sound of chicks in a nest when the mother bird appears with dinner. But do you know the reason?”
He shook his head, looking at her with rapt attention. He was so handsome, it almost broke her heart.
“The chicks raise such a fuss,” she explained, “because the mother will only feed the loudest, closest ones. This is quickly learned—actually, theyknow itinnately. They’re in competition with every other chick in the nest to attract the mother’s attention. They’ll hop and jostle on their weak little baby legs to bump closer to the edge. But the noise, in particular, is the most distinctive. Each hatchling tries to out-tweet the next in order to be fed. In every bird family, at least one baby will die because it cannot make itself heard or bump its way to the front.”
“This is a terrible story,” he proclaimed, frowning now.
“’Tis, I suppose, but I mention it only because this behavior seems to explain... my very awkward, entirelybeastlygirlhood. My mother pitted Anastasia and me against each other. In order to gain her attention—and even more elusive, her approval—we were each forced to be as loud and as demonstrative as possible. We tried to outdo each other with literal and figurativeloudness. When Mother married Cynde’s father and he promptly died—she has a talent, actually, for marrying men who are not long for this earth—we had yet another competitor in the nest, someone else to outpace and outshine and outwit.”
“If I’d not just met the woman,” he mused, “I would not believe you. But I can see it. How wretched.”
“It was wretched, honestly. Although now it feels infantile and petty to complain about her. We were not beaten—well, Ana and I were not beaten. Cynde was a frequent target for flying shoes and hurled broadsheets. But we werenot starved. We had tutors and Seasons and maids to look after us when were sick. Again, Ana and I did. It would be impossible to overstate my mother’s treatment of Cynde. If anyone deserves to become a princess and live in a palace, it is Cynde.” She took a deep breath.
“Please don’t feel you need to justify your misery to me,” he commented, staring into the pond. “Squiring her around on my arm for ten minutes was proof enough. I will say that this... this calmness? This serenity you claim is all new? I can only guess this frustrates her.”
“That and the fact that I’m a duchess now,” she added, “if I’m being honest.”
“Took the wind out of her sails, did it?”
“She wanted it to be untrue,” Drew said, the words out before she considered them.
“Foiled again,” he sang softly. Beneath her, he widened his fingers and then brought them back together, effectively pinching her backside.
She let out a little squeak, jumped, and put her hands out to steady herself. One hand flew wide, the other landed on his thigh.
“Careful, Miss Trelayne,” he warned, wrapping a hand around her waist. In one strong tug, he dragged her across the stump and tucked her against him.
She squeaked again.
“I, too, was neither starved nor beaten, but my mother was either chronically unhappy or living in another country. As I’ve said, my father ignored Timothea and me to the point of not knowing how old we were at any given time. Once, when I was ten, he asked me if I’d yet learned to read. When I was eleven, he asked me if I’d like to share a bottle of gin. The only reason he could tell us apart was because she was a girl, and I was a boy.
“Is there a worse existence?” he asked. “Yes. Certainly. Was it still wretched? Yes. But at least I had more than the birds to comfort and guide me. My uncle and aunt were very dear. I joined the army to honor my uncle’s service. Iam a good custodian to Avenelle—or at least I’ve tried to be—because he loved it.”
And I love you, she thought.
It was the truth, as clear to her now as the sun streaming through the leaves, casting the stump in a golden mist.
She had fallen in love with him; and it had taken no time at all. Nothing about this surprised her. When she thought of him, she saw decency, cleverness, love for his family, the ability to admit fault, honor, generosity, and commitment to his lands. If he was also interesting and sensual, well? Why not?
Was it magical? Yes. But it also felt inevitable; like spring following winter.
Of his regard for her, she was far less certain. She couldn’t explain why he’d come to this leafy bower to seek her out. Or why he’d told her the history of his parents and his uncle. Why he listened to her terrible tale of woe.
She didn’t know how to ask any of this, and she was too afraid to misspeak. In all honesty, she was too afraid tomove. Last night had been glorious in so many ways, especially because she’d been free to simply follow along. There had been little room for anxiety about being too tall or too skinny or too... anything. She could simply swing wide the doors to her heart, open her body, and let him in.
“So,” he said after a moment.
