Page 44 of Sir Andrew and the Authoress

Ever since they’d left London, he’d felt a change in his regard for Josephine. A change he’d tried desperately to ignore. First, there had been the realization that he wondered what it would be like to kiss her.

That had to be a natural inclination any man would feel when faced with a beautiful woman. He’d never denied Josephine’s good looks, to himself or anyone else. A man would have to be blind to think her anything other than attractive.

Not that he went around thinking of kissing every pretty woman. That would make him a cad.

But then. Why Josephine?

“Opportunity,” he said to himself. “That’s all.” He was around her more than any woman of his acquaintance. Again, that was completely natural, given his friendship with her brother and his place in the duke’s family.

The thought of kissing aside, he’d also found himself more sympathetic to her than in the past. More aware of her comings and goings, which had led him to following her to the village. Then up to her tower.

But it is my duty to look after her, since I promised her father and Simon both I would be of help while the duke is in London. He nodded along with that thought. I am completely justified in my concern for her.

It all made perfect sense when he looked at the course of events that had led him to spending more time in Josephine’s company. No wonder his instincts had shifted. He was merely following a natural course that had brought them closer, as friends.

As Josephine’s friend, and Simon’s, too, he would concern himself over her future. He must naturally mourn the thought of losing her, even if it was to one as worthy as Roman Eastman, Lord Hartwell.

“Yes, of course.” He lifted his gaze upward as he stepped from beneath the last canopy of trees and into the terraced gardens nearest the hilltop and castle. “She is my friend.”

His friend, Josephine. His friend, who had felt comfortable in his arms while they rode in the rain. A necessary thing, that ride, to get them out of the weather. It wasn’t his fault they’d only had the single horse. Josephine. His friend, whose laugh made his heart lighter, and whose lips made him think of soft kisses in the cool shadows of the woods.

Andrew stopped where he stood and gulped.

No. I cannot entertain such thoughts about Josephine. She is Simon’s sister. The duke’s daughter. We are, and only will be, friends.

Until someone like Hartwell took her away to wed.

Andrew’s heart cracked, and the sick feeling returned. He replaced his hat, then rubbed at his chest above the ache he hadn’t realized was there.

“Perhaps I am a fool,” he whispered, and the breeze snatched his words away before he could take them back.

CHAPTER 15

The day after their ride, and the enjoyable sight of Andrew serving everyone tea while wearing a white-frilled apron, Josephine slipped away again. She climbed the steps to her secret nest in the tower, holding a bundle of paper against her chest. It was fresh, in large sheets, and would need to be cut down to the right size. A chore she didn’t at all mind performing herself in the quiet of her hideout.

But as soon as her eye level rose above the final step, she paused and put her free hand against the wall to catch her balance.

Andrew already sat in her tower, in the same place as he had before. Instead of reading, he leaned back against the corner of the wall and window, staring out the slightly open glass frame. He didn’t wear his coat. Which she didn’t blame him for, as the afternoon had turned somewhat warm for spring. His blond curls fell over his brow and across his ears. As she stood there, still on the steps and mostly in shadow, she watched as his chest rose and fell with a large breath. Then he closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the stone.

If only she could linger there on the step, absorbing the peace of the scene. Having Andrew there, in her sanctuary, didn’t irritate her as she thought it should. Instead, his presence complimented the atmosphere. He belonged there, at least as much as she did. And oh, how she wished she had the words to tell him that.

How could she call herself an author, or even a writer, when she couldn’t speak her heart to someone she had known nearly her entire life?

Andrew rubbed at a spot on his forehead before releasing a sigh, still ignorant of her arrival.

He seemed weary, but why? No one was as invigorated by riding as Andrew. And why did she find herself wishing to smooth away the crease of worry in his forehead? She frowned and reminded herself that he was an interloper. An uninvited guest. She needn’t waste any time or thought on worrying after his comfort.

She took another step, and then another, and finally the soft sound of her slipper on the stone was enough to stir him. She sent her icy glares at him as best she could, ignoring the way his crooked smile made her wish to smile back.

“What are you doing here?” Oh dear. She hadn’t sounded nearly as affronted by his presence as she wished.

His smile transformed into a wide grin. “Good afternoon, Josie. I brought you pastries.”

She blinked. “Pastries?”

“Of course. And I commandeered a tea tray for you.” He made a flourishing gesture with his hand, and she spied a small tray with a teapot and two cups waiting for her in the middle of the floor.

“Oh.”