“So it is,” he said speculatively, pretending to concur.
She swung her gaze to him and he gave a shrug and a wink.
A wink.Why? Why wink at her but not speak to her? Or speak more to her? He’d talked almost continuously during their—well,during.
And now?
“What should I know,” he asked, “about a ring-necked parakeet?”
“Well,” she turned back to the bird. “They are one of very few species of island birds to have naturalized from the tropics to Britain—brought home in captivity by sailors. They are rare but quite happy here. They’ve adapted to the cold.”
“So they have,” he said.
She stared at the bird a moment longer. “What a delight,” she whispered, momentarily distracted; settled andcheered, as always, by the simple visit from a bird. “I’ve only ever seen two or three in my life.”
“I told you we were bird-watching,” he said, staring up at the lime-colored bird.
“Perhaps wewerequiet enough,” she remarked. “Especially at the end.”
He looked at her, studying her profile, but she kept her eyes on the bird. She would not question him, or pressure him, or endeavor to direct him. She wouldn’t do anything but discover the very best way to be his wife.
If the ring-necked parakeet could adapt to the cold, by God, so could she.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Ian had always been woefully, dreadfullyunpreparedfor surprises.
It would not be inaccurate to say that hehatedsurprises.
It was chilling, really, his fear of being surprised. Or unprepared. Or being (as seen today) totally dumbfounded and speechless.
It didn’t matter if the surprise amounted to something delightful or something dreadful, he hated being caught off guard.
It was why he’d stalked his tenants for months, pretending to be one of them, trying to understand their conflict with the mill owners.
It was why he stalked the smugglers now, trying to understand how and why these same tenants would engage in criminal activity rather than ask him for help.
He preferred to quietly (and, if necessary,secretly) observe and consider before any surprise circumstance exploded in his face.
Of course this had not worked in his favor with the riots, but not because he hadn’t tried.
Drewsmina Trelayne had, thus far, been an exercise in surprises. Adolphus had forced her upon him. She’d stormed the house with practicality and compassion and her red hair andblue gowns like an avenging angel. She’d been too irresistible not to . . . well, not to wind up as his duchess.
And now this.
Ian tromped through the tall wet grass of Hampstead Heath, pulling Drewsmina behind him, wondering how he could possibly salvage any of this.
Oh, I do love you, she’d said—a statement that might just represent the surprise of his life.
And what had he done?
He’d made exactly the wrong response, which was no response at all, a product of all the surprises that Drewsmina seemed to have embodied since she swarmed his life.
Ian detested surprises but he did not detest her.
Do I love her?
He had no idea.
