For this, their third meeting and her anticipated journey to London, she had worn gloves, and now she brought her gloved fingers to her lips. Had she been about to say,Never kissed one, either?
He tucked his chin to his chest. “And I have never met an authoress before.”
She dropped her hand, leaned forward. “You haven’t? ButI would have thought lords would meet authors and actors and painters and?—”
“I was never part of those circles.” Diana had been, though. That was where she had met the poet with a fondness for little boys.
Susannah sat back and looked out the carriage window. “Well, you still haven’t met an authoress. Not a real one.”
“You’ve written books that have been published. And that are much loved by many people,” he said stiffly, his stomach still curdled from thoughts of the past.
“By children,” she said.
“You are a very fine writer, Miss Beasley.” Henry had discovered he was a man who found it difficult to compliment anyone beyond his granddaughter. But Susannah was deserving. “You should be proud.”
At first, she did not say anything in answer, just kept her gaze directed out the carriage window. The carriage trundled along the country lane, jolting them.
She murmured to the window, “My father was the real writer.”
It sounded like something Susannah had told herself often. Or been told often. Perhaps by the father who had written one book, the one mentioned by the farrier who had almost turned Henry into mince last night.
“You said five brothers.”
She looked at him. She waited.
He tried again. “Do the other four brothers live in Much Wemby?”And why aren’t they providing for you, Susannah?
“My other brothers are all gone.”
He supposed it was not uncommon for only two out of six siblings to live to a middle-age. “And were all your brothers fierce giants like the one I met?”
“No, Dando grew the most. And he’s really very gentle.”In response to his expression, she added, “Really, he is. When not provoked.”
“I’m glad you have a brother who takes someinterest in your well-being.” He emphasized thesome.
“Oh, no, you mustn’t think Dando is getting rid of me. He wants me to keep living with him and Celia after they marry even though she doesn’t like me.”
“I can’t imagine that’s true,” Henry said, not to be polite but because he actually couldn’t imagine it. How could anyone not like Susannah? He rarely liked anyone, and— Waslikedeven the right word for what he thought about her after only one day’s acquaintance?
She laughed. “You have a very poor imagination, then.”
She wouldn’t say that if she knew what he had imagined last night, lying in his bed at Sutton Hall. How he had imagined their one kiss turning into two and three and more until he and she were more than kissing, they were improbably fucking up against a wall in the middle of a village fête.
Susannah stopped laughing abruptly and worry creased her forehead. “My lord, I?—”
He waved away what was almost certainly going to be an apology.
“No. You are correct. Most think my imagination poor. Along with my curiosity.”
Her forehead smoothed. “Maybe that’s why you don’t ask questions.”
Henry felt he must defend himself.
“I ask my granddaughter questions.”
Her eyes sparkled at that, and she smiled. “That’s wonderful. Children are usually the ones asking questions, and she must love that you ask her things. How old is she?”
“Five years.”
