“Perhaps... you’re mourning your ruined sketchbook?”
The question sounded serious. Almost tentative. And was so startlingly astute that she could only turn to him in speechless, somewhat hunted surprise.
He didn’t pursue it.
“Did you just use the word ‘histrionics’ because you thought I wouldn’t understand what it meant?” he said at once, instead.
She was still a little rattled. The truth was: she had. Unworthy of her, perhaps. It was interesting to know how swiftly she was willing to play dirty in order to retrieve the upper hand from him.
“I said it because it was the right word for that particular sentence,” she hedged.
“Mmm. Well, I approve of exactitude.” He wasn’t blinking.
“And your approval meanseverythingto me, Mr. Cassidy.”
His smile was slow, and contained such a combination of genuine amusement, self-deprecation, and appreciation for her that for an instant every part of her felt illuminated, warmed, and too exposed.
She remembered poor Claire and the scarlet furling up her face.
She looked quickly away, at the apple blossom, in order to avoid that fate.
It was a point for Mr. Cassidy, and he knew it.
He leaned back against the bench. She watched, out of the corner of her eye, the grace of the lines of his body as he settled in and stretched an arm across it.
It seemed entirely rational to want to sit in his lap.
“Why raccoons?” he asked suddenly.
She was unaccountably flattered. It meant he’d listened carefully—and remembered—every word she’d said last night. Men were often such terrible listeners.
“They seem like charming animals.”
“Theyarecharming. Clever and clownish. Did you know their name comes from a Powhatan word? They also make fine warm hats, should the need arise.”
She had no idea what to say to this. She suspected he was being very American in an attempt to unnerve her.
“I ask,” he continued, “because I didn’t go to Eton with ‘Tiggy,’ Lady Lillias. I learned ‘histrionics’ the same way you learned about raccoons, no doubt.”
“Because my father has a large library and books on many subjects and I... read them.”
“As does my friend, Mr. Augustus Woodley. He allowed me the use of it while I worked for him, building out his library shelves and stables.”
A reminder that Mr. Cassidy was alaborer.
Or had been. Albeit an ambitious one.
There was an awkward little silence, during which she realized that nearly all of her interactions with men to date had been governed by the kinds of rules and assumptions that kept her, like a train, on a track, rolling toward one destination and quite blinkered, to boot.
Doubtless there were very good reasons for this. She probably ought not be isolated in a little garden by the docks with a laborer from America, even if he harbored political ambitions.
“Are you a great reader then, Mr. Cassidy?” Shegave this a doubtful lilt, lest he be lulled into thinking she was enjoying this conversation.
“Apart fromRobinson Crusoe, of course, which my uncle”—he raised the letter—“gave to me, I read in order to learn everything I’ll need.”
“Need for what, pray tell?”
“To build an empire.” He said it easily, matter-of-factly.
