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Annoyance swarmed in her chest. She ought not speak. She ought to lay the conversation to rest. And yet…she couldn’t.

She shifted her person away from Aunt and Uncle, no longer caring if they awakened or not as she turned to face Mr. Branok squarely. “So you believe that those who look at sketches of birds are not called true observers merely because they observe drawn birds instead of living ones?”

“Well, yes,” he said matter-of-factly. “They are not observing birds, then. They are observing drawings. They cannot compare.”

Lark could see his reasoning. But the way he said it with such resoluteness, as if he believed himself to be the most accurate gentleman in all the world and no one could ever persuade him otherwise—it irked her beyond reason, and all her sensible warnings flew away from her grasp.

“What would you say in regard to those who are restricted to their homes yet still have a deep and abiding love for the creatures?” she pressed. “Would you dare tell them that they are not true observers?”

He shifted toward her, then, too, that twinkle in his eye missing, replaced with a narrowed gaze. She was only vaguely aware of how close their knees were to touching, but she was so frustrated with the conversation, she couldn’t be bothered to pull away.

“But what person could not manage to leave one’s home to see the birds in one’s own community?” he asked. “Even you manage that.”

Lark’s mouth dropped open. This time, she did not care to close it. “I beg your pardon?”

Mr. Branok didn’t look repentant in the least. In fact, he had the audacity to raise a shoulder in a flippant shrug. “You’ve spoken of your unfortunate circumstances. What excuses do others have if even you can manage to leave your home to see what few birds you have?”

Lark could hardly believe his ungentlemanly words—highlighting her unfortunate circumstances and assuming the number of birds she hadn’t seen.

She supposed this was the real Mr. Branok. He was not old and bald and bored of birds, nor was he benevolent and inclusive. Instead, he was just like the rest of them—the type of person to exclude individuals from the community simply because they did not fit into his idea of what they ought to be.

How wrong she had been about him. And how her admiration for him crumbled beneath her like a foundation made of sand.

She was finished with being pulled this way and that due to her interactions with him—embarrassed, flattered, wounded. Let Mr. Branok complain to Mr. Chumley. Lark would no longer hold her tongue.

“I manage to see birds because I am capable of doing so, sir,” she stated, indignation burning in the center of her chest. “And I assure you, I do very well despite my unfortunate circumstances and have seen more than just a few birds.”

One hundred and fifty-four to be exact. But she wasn’t about to share that number with him, as he had to have somewhere near nine hundred on his own lifelong list.

To her surprise—and even further infuriation—the man cracked a smile, that glimmer in his eyes returning full force. “Of course,” he said.

Did he tease her? Was he satisfied now that he’d riled her up? What she wouldn’t give to throw her journal toward him and prove just how many birds she had seen.

“I have,” she restated in a raised voice, checking her tone with a quick glance at Aunt and Uncle, who remained fast asleep.

She wouldn’t wish to wake them—not when she was finally allowing herself to speak freely. Aunt and Uncle would no doubt remind her of her desire to hold her tongue, but she was past the point of caring now.

“I trust you keep a lifelong list of the birds you’ve seen?” Mr. Branok asked next.

“I do.”

“Would you care to share a number?”

“No, I would not. Only know that it is more than sufficient.”

He smiled again. “Very well. You may keep your secret. At any rate, I do not doubt that you have seen many birds.”

He leaned against the back of his seat with arms folded, and his leg moved toward her in the motion, grazing Lark’s knee. A shock of energy sailed up her thigh, and she pulled back with a frown, but he did not seem to notice that he’d even touched her.

He smirked as he continued. “But you cannot deny that you would see more birds, should you leave your home and your books behind. After all, is that not the reason you are here on the excursion?”

Her gaze faltered for just a moment as she thought of her real reason being that of Mr. Branok’s presence, but she readily set that notion aside.

He was a reason no longer, of that she was certain.

“I am on this excursion to see more birds, yes,” she returned in a soft tone, keeping her knees tucked and safely away from the man’s encroaching movements. “But I do not do so to raise myself above others. I simply wish to see more birds because of my love for them. I assure you, however, that I witnessed enough in Suffolk to be more than satisfied with the amount I’ve seen.” She paused, knowing full well she was not being truthful, but she greatly lacked the desire to stop her words. “Oh, but I forget, I am not considered a true observer of birds unless I leave England, explore the world, and write seven—sorry, eight—books, as you have done.”

“Now, Miss Fernside,” he said with a knowing tip of his head in her direction. He had a look about him filled with insufferable patience and even, dare she think it, tempered amusement. “You know I did not say that.”