He had made her feel safe.
To think that his presence, so often useless in the matters that truly counted, could offer her even a little peace, affected him more than he cared to admit. He wished, absurdly and with too much force, that he might offer it always, that she might be free to be this Aurelia more often. And more than that, though he scarcely allowed the thought to form, he would like her always to be this Aurelia with him.
He set that aside at once. Wishing for impossible things was a dangerous habit.
“Your cousin appears to think Captain Harrow invincible,” he said, if only to say something safer.
“She thinks him delightful,” Aurelia replied.
“Well, she is not alone.”
Aurelia glanced sideways at him, and there was almost mischief in her eyes. “Do you mean to confess affection for your friend?”
“I mean only that he is difficult to dislike unless one is my mother.”
“That is no true measure. I suspect your mother dislikes most of what is easiest to love.”
The words were lightly spoken, but they touched something real enough that Owen laughed.
“Why, Miss Finch,” he teased, “are you improving in boldness?”
She beamed. “Only in the open air.”
“I shall have to keep you out of doors, then.”
The answer came too quickly, and for a brief moment something passed between them, some perilous awareness that they were speaking with a familiarity their formal arrangement did not entirely account for.
He had only one way to steady the mood.
“In your last letter, you wrote that France never became home, however long you remained there.”
He had meant it kindly. More than kindly, if he was honest. He had wanted to know more. They were pretending intimacy well enough in public. He had thought perhaps they might dare a little of the real kind in private.
Aurelia’s expression changed at once. No one less attentive than Owen would likely have seen it. But the ease went out of her shoulders. Her hands stilled. The warmth in her face retreated.
“I … ought not to have written so much,” she said as if scolding herself.
He felt, absurdly, as though he had frightened a delicate bird from his hand.
“You may write whatever you please,” he urged. “I did not mean—”
“No, I know.” She gave a small, apologetic smile that did not reach her eyes. “It is only easier, somehow, to speak on paper than aloud. I fear one grows careless with ink.”
“There are worse faults.”
“Yes,” she replied softly. “But I would rather not dwell on France just now.”
He looked at her, disappointed more than he should have been, and because she knew him well enough already, she looked back. There was a silent apology in her gaze. And something else too, something more vulnerable, as though she knew she was withdrawing and did not quite want to.
Owen let the subject go.
“Very well,” he told her.
He disliked the change, though he could hardly blame her for it. If anything, he blamed himself for forgetting how much she still carried. So once again, he turned to safer territory.
“What is next?” he asked. “With the investigation.”
That, at least, she answered readily enough.
