Page 62 of Miss Devon’s Choice

But he was kind, even though he said he didn’t want my company.

Foisting herself on him again might well try his patience, though.

What choice do I have? I know Father will demand a report on my progress. I may as well at least try.

Before she talked herself out of it, Rebecca put her hand to the door knob and pushed. The door swung open on well-oiled hinges so readily that what force she’d put into opening it sent the whole thing banging into the wall behind it. Rebecca squeaked and covered her mouth, mortified, when she saw Christian leaping to his feet from a chair beside the window.

He stood as though ready to confront an attacker, and her cheeks completely flooded with heat.

“Good morning?” The words were more a humble question than an actual greeting.

His dark eyes stared across the room, incredulously for a moment. “Rebecca.” His posture relaxed, he curled one hand into a fist and rapped at his thigh, looking from her to the door. “Is anything wrong?”

Rebecca shook her head, her mind hanging on the way he’d said her name. It was with the same gentle inflection he’d used the last several days. No Miss Devon. No stiff formality. Instead, the R in her name was nearly a purr once again.

“No.” Then she remembered the paper in her hand. “Not really.” She thrust it out in front of her and took two steps into the room. “My father has invited us to tea. Today.”

“Oh.” Christian laid down the book she hadn’t noticed him holding, then crossed the room to her. He tucked the hand that had been fisted into his jacket, as though putting something away.

She held the paper out for him to take, her eyes meeting his with what she hoped was a contrite expression. “Perhaps while we’re at Whitewood Estate I can give you a tour.”

Christian took the paper and looked over its contents, his eyebrows drawing together as he read. “I would like that.” He paused a moment, looking from the paper to her and back again. “Does your father always write in such a formal manner?”

“Yes. When he writes at all. Most of the time, he delivers his instruction through my aunt.” She raised a hand to her forehead. “I suppose I need to tell her of this, too. She will likely insist that Hettie accompany us today.”

“Instructions?” Christian asked, not seeming to have heard what she said regarding the maid. He took a step closer and returned the paper to her.

Rebecca took it, trying to ignore the tingling sensation shooting up her arm when their fingertips brushed against each other. It distracted her enough that she didn’t think her answer through properly. “Oh, yes. He gives a fair number of them. Aunt relates his lists and then writes back a report of how I have performed.” She tilted her head back to see a deep crease in his forehead still. “They want to make certain I am a proper English miss. My father and aunt are not fond of each other, but in my behavior they are agreed on nearly all points.”

Christian nodded, his expression unchanging.

After a long moment of silence, Rebecca dared to speak again, with purposeful lightness of tone. “What were you reading? It must be excessively diverting for you to forgo shooting this morning.” If she pretended nothing was wrong, he may go along with it.

They had been doing so well before her father came. Before she learned of Christian’s dislike for her.

“Hm?” He raised his eyebrows, as though coming out of his own thoughts surprised him. “Oh. Sir Walter Scott.” Christian gestured for her to precede him to where he’d laid the book.

Startled, Rebecca nearly jumped across the room.

It worked? He didn’t seem as comfortable as he had been with her before, but neither was he trying to get away from her as fast as his feet would carry him.

He followed her, gesturing to the chair he’d occupied when she burst into the room. “It isn’t Waverly, but The Lady of the Lake. I didn’t intend to read, but when I spied it on the earl’s shelves I thought I ought to give it a chance. Have you heard of it? Please, sit.”

Rebecca sat, utterly flummoxed, watching him take up the book again. She barely remembered she needed to answer his question. “I read it when it was published, several years ago. Julia made it a present to me.”

“Hm. What do you think of Ellen? She’s not a heroine of Pride and Prejudice’s ilk, but I find her interesting.”

Slowly, Rebecca relaxed. Books she understood. She could speak about the problems in a fictional world, the foibles of make-believe people, comfortably in even the worst of circumstances.

Before long, Rebecca nearly forgot their arguments. Christian discussed the book at length with her, and handed it to her when she forgot an aspect of the poem he wished to examine in more detail. She stayed in his chair, and he brought another nearer, to share the book between them, his deep voice reading the passages aloud while her heart fluttered and spun.

He doesn’t love me, she reminded herself. Not yet. He may not even wish to marry me.

Though those thoughts stung, her heart was soothed while listening to the warmth in his voice as he read to her.

Chapter Twenty-four

Over the length of the quiet drive, Christian felt Rebecca grow more and more tense at his side. They sat close together, as her maid was also on the seat, which made it easy for him to discern the stiffening of Rebecca’s shoulders. She clutched her reticule tightly, her gloved fingers digging into its bright green fabric. The little purse matched the color of the walking gown she’d put on for the occasion.