Puzzled, he held it up and angled it so that the silvery, pale moonlight would illuminate it. The elements—water, storms, who knew what else—had etched little tiers and facets on one side, smooth on the other, a sort of creamy bronze shade, with speckles. A typical, humble little river rock.
He wasn’t quite certain what to do with it.
“Nice little stone,” he approved. “I could probably skip this three, maybe four times across the pond back home. In winter, you can make the ice sing notes by just skipping a stone.”
“What on... that’s not... that can’t be true.” She was watching him intently.
“I wouldn’t lie to you about singing ice,” he said somberly.
She smiled a little. “Gilly gave it to me two yearsago. It was then that . . . well, I’ve always been fond of him. I knew he was fond of me. It was all very lovely, easy, and I thought our fondness for each other was apparent to everyone. Our families spent a good deal of time together; we’ve been friends for simply always. Anyhow, two years ago we were with our families on a bit of a jaunt down at Heatherfield and he found and gave it to me and he said, ‘Lillias, this reminds me of you.’”
She stopped, as though this was explanation enough.
“You remind him of a rock,” Hugh said slowly.
She sighed. “He said, ‘One side shines brightly and it would catch anyone’s eye. Anyone would look at it; it’s why I noticed it. But they wouldn’t turn it over to see the subtle shading and little freckles on the other side.’”
Damn that aristocrat. It was a rather lovely thing to say.
And he thought he understood why she’dcravedhearing something like that.They decided who I am, she’d said in anguish.
His stomach contracted again.
“And just like that, you fell in love.”
“He’s also a nice person.”
“Nice! Well, that tears it. I’m half in love with him now, too.”
She gave a short, pained laugh. “He remembers things. Servants’ names. Birthdays. If you’ve a favorite color, that I like jam with my scones but not cream. He thinks I’m clever and it doesn’t upset him and as we’ve discussed before, some men struggle with the notion that a woman might be clever. He listens when I speak and doesn’t yammer on the way so many young men do because they think they’re fascinating and they are usually quite wrong.”
“You’ll get no argument from me there.”
“He can be witty. He thinks I’m witty. We’ve had the same kinds of upbringings and we have the same values and memories and know all of the same people and places and we’ve the same friends. We love the country and going riding and picnics and such. And we love our families. He’s a gentleman.”
That was her list?
“You left out ‘and he’s obedient,’” he said rather ironically.
She was silent.
He was dumbstruck by the surprisingly gentle, mundane things that this prickly, intelligent, beautiful, sensual female who possessed a rather unorthodox sense of risk claimed to cherish in a person.
Things that had resulted in her quiet devastation. A devastation that made him restless. He wanted to undo it, even as he felt a little frayed. And perhaps betrayed.
She turned to look at him. He couldn’t quite read her expression in the shadows. It wasn’t the loneliest he’d ever felt, sitting here in the dark of a far too tame garden with a woman who, even as she confessed her love for another man, he would gladly lay back on the grass and ravish.
A woman, he half suspected, who would, despite her professed love for another man, welcome it.
But it was lonely.
And then one of her shoulders went up and then down.
“Why does anyone love anyone?” she said.
He shifted on the bench and blew out a breath.
“I don’t know. I know it’s the only thing that makes life bearable. And it’s the only thing that makes life unbearable.”
