“Five and forty,” he said, if only to ease whatever embarrassment she was enduring. And since she’d broached the subject… “What about you?”
She cleared her throat, repositioned herself, and smoothed out her skirts. “Eight and twenty.”
A couple of years older than he’d estimated then, but still close to two full decades his junior. It was madness for him to want her as much as he did. Worse was the horror of her finding out how much he’d been thinking about her these past five months and not being even remotely attracted to him in return.
But the prospect of being permitted to unpin her hair, to watch it fall over her naked shoulders… To kiss that scolding mouth of hers and hold her firmly in his grasp while making her sigh with pleasure…
He dug his fingertips into his thighs and dropped his gaze to the floor, to where the hem of her gown rested.
“It’s clearly a lost cause at this point.”
His gaze snapped back to hers. “What?”
“My getting married.” She pursed her lips as though mulling that over, as if it were a gown that had gone out of fashion before she’d been able to wear it. “It’s probably for the best, however, since most men would likely balk at their wife becoming involved in murder investigations. Or hunting for clues with other men.”
He couldn’t help but smirk. “As you insist upon doing.”
She was not the sort of woman one ordered to stay home and knit. He’d learned that the moment they met. To his surprise, it was one of the things he found most compelling about her — the fact that she knew her own mind and chased what she wanted regardless of social norms.
If he were honest, it would be hard for him to think of any person whom he admired or respected more. In a way, he was glad she’d never wed. Not only for selfish reasons but also because he believed her intellect and the skills she provided Bow Street would have been wasted on marriage.
“I’m sorry if you find me difficult to deal with at times.” It was clear she genuinely meant it. “If it makes any difference I’m like this with everyone.”
“Like what?” he asked, curious to know more about how she viewed herself.
She tapped one finger against her hand while the carriage trundled along, hopping over some uneven spots in the road. “Opinionated, stubborn, critical, irritable, and oftentimes too serious.”
It was true that she was all of those things. However…
“You’re also clever, meticulous, daring, brave, dependable, and intriguing.”
Her lips parted in surprise. Or in possible wonder. For a second he feared he’d gone too far. But then her face brightened and… It wasn’t merely a smile on her face but rather something that would have knocked him right off his feet had he not been seated.
Because Miss Hastings, a woman he’d only ever seen with either a serious expression or a disapproving frown, was beaming as though she’d just inherited a thousand pounds.
It was extraordinary. She was extraordinary. Even as she quietly asked, “Do you honestly think so?”
“I wouldn’t have said it otherwise.” His voice was as gentle as hers, as though this moment demanded the reverence one might apply in a church.
There was something that intimate about it. That sacred.
“Thank you, Kendrick.” She licked her lips, then pressed them together, her appearance suddenly slightly forlorn as she slumped her shoulders. “I’m glad to know you don’t dislike me too much.”
Her comment felt like a punch to the gut. “Dislike you? Whatever gave you the notion I might do that?”
A soft frown appeared at the bridge of her nose. It was accompanied by a do-you-really-need-to-ask? kind of look. This was promptly followed by, “I've seen you roll your eyes at me, and I've noted your irritation whenever I bring up your smoking.”
“Yes, but–”
“There's no need for you to pretend I don't get on your nerves.”
He paused to consider then chose to point out, “I get on your nerves too. I know I do. Especially because of the smoking. Are you suggesting this means you hate me?”
“Of course not. I could never…” There was a flustered look about her now, a look of uneasiness suggesting she no longer wished to discuss this.
And while he sympathized, he had to ask, “Then why would you suppose I could?”
The possibility of this being the case chipped away at his heart. It made him reconsider their every interaction. Most specifically how she might have perceived them, or rather him.
