She ignored him and simply went on.
“If we are to be married, then I should think you will have someone to keep you company at all times,” she said. “Of course, it can be more like friendship…”
She added the last part hastily, as though she was worried about overstepping.
He looked at her for a long moment, then gave a slight nod, partly in acknowledgment of the distinction and partly to end that line of discussion before she said something kind enough to make him uncomfortable.
“You were going to tell me about your sisters,” Duncan said, and he was not sure whether he changed the subject for her sake or his own.
Charity glanced down, then back at him, and some of the warmth returned to her face. “Was I.”
“You mentioned them,” Duncan said. “You said your friends cared that they were safe. I assume that means your letters are more about them than about you.”
She let out a quiet breath that might have been a laugh. “That is probably true.”
“Go on, then,” Duncan said, and this time he did not pretend indifference. “Tell me.”
Charity seemed to settle more deeply into the chair, and when she spoke again, there was affection in every sentence, even when she was plainly complaining.
“Matilda is easier to describe,” Charity said. “She is exactly what she seems, and she feels everything openly, and she can move from tears to laughter in a matter of minutes if she decides the world has improved. She asks questions no one else will ask, and she has no sense of timing, which means she is often the only honest person in a room.”
Duncan’s mouth shifted again despite himself. “I have noticed that.”
“And Augusta,” Charity said, and here her expression softened and tightened at once, as if love and frustration arrived together and neither could be separated from the other, “is difficult in ways that remind me too much of myself, which is perhaps why I lose patience with her faster than I should. She hates being managed, and if she thinks she is being spoken around instead of spoken to, she will make trouble simply to prove she can.”
“That also sounds familiar.”
Charity looked up and caught the dry note in his voice, and a small smile appeared before she seemed to remember herself.
“Yes, well, I am aware I have not handled her well.”
Duncan was quiet for a second, then said, “You handled last night better than I expected after the yard.”
She looked genuinely surprised. “Is that meant to be praise?”
“It is,” Duncan said. “Do not make me repeat it.”
That drew a real laugh from her, brief but unguarded, and the sound hit him harder than it should have.
He looked down at the desk, then at her hands where they rested over the folded papers in her lap, and before he had fully thought through the decision, he stood and came around the desk.
Charity looked up at him, the laugh fading into uncertainty.
“What are you doing?”
“I do not know yet,” Duncan said, which was more honest than he meant to be.
He stopped beside her chair. She did not move away.
For one brief second, he considered stepping back and saying something practical, something about the guest list, something that would return them to safer ground, but he was tired of hisown restraint and tired of pretending he did not want proximity when he plainly did.
So, he reached down and took her hand.
Charity went still at once, and he felt the small shift in her fingers before she let him hold them properly. Her hand was warm. He told himself he had only meant to steady the moment, to soften what had been tense between them, to give her some sign that the argument was not all that existed between them.
That was not the whole truth and he knew it.
Charity looked up at him, and her voice was quieter now. “Duncan.”
