“And look how lovely you’ve made her stone. Are you good at everything then, Mr. Redmond?”
“I do hold myself to an exacting standard,” he told her earnestly. “I was a wrangler at Cambridge and I was the top boy in all of my subjects, too.”
He realized too late that he’d sounded like an absolute prig—worse, a nine-year old prig— whereupon his cheeks went warm. It was just that he felt a peculiar urgency to impress her as much as he could as quickly as possible.
But she merely raised her brows.
“Oh my. Awrangler! Isn’t that the highest level in mathematics a student can reach at Cambridge? Well done, indeed, Mr. Redmond. Is it really necessary to be so clever when you're already rich?”
He gave a short, startled laugh. The cheek of her!
But her sidelong glance was full of mischief and challenge, and her lashes cast little shadows on her cheekbones, and these two things made it impossible for him to feel anything but enthralled.
“As with my dart game, I endeavor to continually refine my expertise inallthings over time.” He said this ironically. He gestured broadly at the newly clean headstone. “What areyoubest at, Miss Sylvaine? You don't strike me as a bluestocking.”
She startled him by sitting back abruptly and eying him indignantly for three silent seconds. “Oh, ho! I can tell by your tone that you consider that a compliment, and I'm not at all certain it is, therefore I shall not thank you for it.” She used the late Mrs. McElroy’s headstone to push herself to her feet, then brushed her hands together briskly. “Because I fear I read everything I can get my hands on, Mr. Redmond. Not just dance steps and romantic novels, both of which I adore. My father has a phobia about being bored at the dinner table, and so we are all prepared for lively debate. I’m certain, in fact, there are a lot of things I can do better than you can.”
“For instance...” he indulged, as he stood, whisking his hands together to get dirt and lichen off his gloves. He was far too eager to hear her say anything at all.
She paused and studied him thoughtfully. “Whinny. I'll wager you can't.”
“Why on earth would I ever need to whinny?” He replied with great practicality.
“What if....” she tipped her head back in thought, treating him to a view of her lovely, long white throat and the blue ribbon tied beneath her chin. “What if an apocalypse occurs, and everyone apart from you and all the horses in the world perished? You'd be obliged to learn their language.”
He gave a short laugh.
He thought she might laugh, too.
Instead, her smile wavered. And then, to his alarm, her expression went somber and bleak.
He instantly felt bereft of all light, as if she was the sun blotted out by an eclipse.
“It's just so sad…” she finally said wistfully. “And so very disappointing. Because it's very clear that you'reafraidthat you can't whinny. You haven't a shred of adventure in you, have you?”
She was jesting. Wasn’t she? She was calling his bluff.
It was just that her devastation was so bloody convincing. Her eyes were limpid with woe.
Into his mind flared the image of Jacob Eversea, standing on the deck of a ship somewhere on the ocean, sailing headlong into adventure.
He was certain that feckless bastard was unafraid to tryanything.
“Bah. I'm afraid of nothing.” He shrugged. Hedging.
Though he was in fact afraid of everything he felt in this moment.
“Bold statement,” she said idly, examining the fingertips of her gloves, as if bored. “But probably mere words.”
He was now less amused but increasingly impressed at her tactics.
“Are you daring me, Miss Sylvaine?” he said mildly.
His stomach did a languid, delicious flip when she fixed him with a level gaze. Her eyes were a sort of faceted blue ringed in darker blue.
“What if I am?” she said softly. “Do you never take dares? Are you so very, very obedient, Mr. Redmond, so proper, so upright?”
He threw back his head back and released a whinny so competent birds exploded from the trees in fright.
