Page 46 of Sir Andrew and the Authoress

“Hm?”

“Do you ever wish things were different?”

His eyebrows drew together but his eyes remained shut. “What things?”

Josephine plucked at the fabric of her gown, pinching and twisting it nervously. She gathered her words and spoke them with care. “Do you ever wish you had brothers and sisters, like I have?”

He shrugged, the loose cotton of his sleeve stroking her skin and making it prickle again. “Sometimes, I suppose. But then, that is one reason I am forever here at the castle. Your parents have been kind enough to make me feel like part of the family. Simon is like a brother to me. The girls are as dear to me as sisters. I would happily spend hours with James exploring the woods, too. He’s a diverting little fellow.”

Josephine watched him speak, tracing the line of his nose with her gaze, then studying his lips. Wondering. “What about me?”

“You?”

“Yes, me. You’ve said we are friends.”

“Indeed.”

“Do you consider me as a sister, like you do Isabelle and Rosalind?” She held her breath, her heart lifting hopefully, her mind so close to understanding something. If he gave the right answer.

First, he coughed covering his mouth with a fist, and turned away from her. Then the cough became a laugh, strained as it was. “You? A sister?” The scorn in his voice wounded her. Even though she’d wanted him to say no, she hadn’t wanted him to say it like that. The tone of his answer squashed her confidence.

She forced herself to laugh. “I suppose not. We don’t get on well at all, do we?” She picked up her pile of paper and moved to her usual place. “We are more like a cat and dog than a brother and sister.”

Andrew had recovered. “We are getting on well at present.”

“Out of necessity, I think. A sort of cease-fire.” She picked up her writing desk. She did her best not to look at him. “I think I shall write until it’s time to go to the garden.” She waved toward the steps. “If you don’t have a book today, you ought to leave so I can concentrate.”

“I’ve been meaning to ask—what are your writing about?”

She hushed him, sending a burning glare in his direction. “None of your business. Off you go. I have work to do.”

He hesitated, then gathered up the tea things. “Do you want this last pastry?”

She didn’t even check what flavor it was. “No. Thank you.”

“Josie.” He sounded uncertain. Perhaps even a bit sorry. “I didn’t mean to laugh like that.”

She tightened her grip around her quill. “Please, Andrew. Not now. I haven’t any time as it is, and I wish to write. We can talk again later.”

Andrew hesitated only a moment more before he stood. “Of course. I apologize for bothering you. Happy writing.”

She nodded dismissively, dipping her quill in ink and scratching out nonsense words across the page. Waiting for him to leave. Listening as his shoes scraped quietly against the steps as he descended to the tower entrance.

Then she sighed and dropped her quill, only to gasp and hurry to blot out the ink puddle she made in her haste. “Terrible. Horrible. Awful.” She muttered each word with more fire, then put aside her work. Not the old manuscript that had been rejected for reasons she could not guess, but the new one. The book she had started after Andrew had discovered her secret.

A story about a man and woman who rather detested each other. Something she had written a single scene for, in Andrew’s presence, to give vent to her frustration over his invasion of her special place. But the words had flowed easily in this story. A story less fraught with drama and moral lessons, and full of more ridiculous moments between the enemies.

She closed her eyes. “I didn’t want him to think of me as a sister,” she reminded herself. But she hadn’t wanted him to laugh at her, either. Why had he laughed?

Best she put it all from her mind. Instead, she would work on her old manuscript. And, when the time came, slip down to the garden for her walk with Lord Hartwell.

Two hours later, Josephine had put aside the hurt from Andrew’s laughter well enough to focus her thoughts and feelings elsewhere. Such as how much she missed Emma all the more when Lord Hartwell met her outside for their walk through the gardens.

Because even though she’d invited her sisters to stroll with them, they didn’t bother to keep close. No, her sisters walked twenty paces ahead with their heads bent together in conversation.

Josephine had rather counted on them to stay back and admire the handsome baron. Their disinterest in ogling him came as a disconcerting surprise. Emma would have stayed by her side, she well knew.

Simon had influenced their behavior. There wasn’t another explanation for it. They wouldn’t miss an opportunity to giggle over an eligible gentleman unless their eldest brother, to whom both girls were excessively devoted, had directed them otherwise.