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She pulled away at the thought, snapping out of the stupor she’d allowed herself to fall into. This gentleman was utterly too attractive.

“Unfortunately, there is no way to prove such a thing,” she stated, quite pleased with how smooth her tone was, compared to how he’d unsettled her.

“Oh, I can think of a way,” he said softly.

She may have pulled back, but he, however, remained leaning toward her.

“What way is that, then?” she asked, getting lost in his eyes.

“By taking part in a competition,” he replied, “just the two of us.”

Chapter 7

“Acompetition?” Miss Fernside repeated. Her voice was soft, only just above the sound of the carriage wheels rumbling along the bumpy road. “What sort of competition?”

Henry saw a spark of interest light up her eyes. He was enjoying this conversation. It was far more entertaining than watching poor Mrs. Haskett fanning herself and Mr. Haskett wincing in pain for hours on end.

The Hasketts’ rest was a godsend for them all, but it wouldn’t last forever. Once they awakened, he would be duty-bound to be as appropriate as Society wished him to be. No more whispering with Miss Fernside. Certainly no more touching her leg with his, nor gazing deeply into her eyes. This was precisely why he was taking advantage of these intimate moments with her while he could.

“A simple challenge is all I suggest,” he whispered in reply.

She eyed him suspiciously. “You mean, like a wager? Like, gambling?” She shook her head. “My aunt and uncle would not approve. And neither would I.”

He leaned back in his seat with folded arms. Her attention lingered on his shoulders before she blinked and glanced at her aunt and uncle. She did that often—as if to ensure they still slept—but only ever when she’d been staring at Henry for a moment longer than propriety allowed.

He couldn’t say that he minded her stares. Nor had he minded their proximity before. He’d been teasing her when he’d glanced down at her lips. Most women squirmed or backed away with a swift blush, but not Miss Fernside. She’d drawn even closer, pride glinting in her eyes like sunshine off a stained-glass window.

“No, not like gambling,” he assured her. “There will be nothing at stake…aside from a title, that is.”

“A title?”

She shifted in her seat, moving farther away from him. Perhaps he ought to stretch out his leg again.

“Indeed,” he said. “The title of Best Bird Observer in All of England.”

She raised her brows with an unimpressed air. “How prestigious. A title only the two of us would acknowledge.”

“I would find it prestigious enough when I inevitably claim it.”

Her eyes narrowed as she took his bait. “What makes you so certain you would defeat me?”

“Due to my own experiences,” he responded simply.

“And my lack thereof,” she retorted.

Henry didn’t respond, nor did he refrain from smiling, which clearly vexed her further. Her brow furrowed, and her lips pulled into a sort of pout.

She was simply adorable, and Henry could not help himself. He loved a decent repartee with a woman. Most ladies took such offense that they retreated instantly. Fortunately, Miss Fernside seemed at the ready to volley back each of his servings with aplomb.

That was a most attractive quality in a woman—being unafraid to stand up for herself.

He was just grateful they’d both made it clear to one another that neither had any plans for matrimony. This made his flirting and their verbal jousting more enjoyable, as he could do so without fear of any repercussions. That was no doubt why she behaved as freely as she did—without care of being society approved. It was not as if her behavior would scare off any potential suitors if she had no wish for them at all.

She turned away from Henry again, folding her arms and settling in her seat with a little wiggle of her shoulders. “Well,” she said airily, “I think it all rather childish. A competition to stroke one’s ego, really.”

He nodded, attempting to appear thoughtful. “Hmm. You are perhaps correct. It is a little childish. But forgive me if I choose to believe your avoidance is merely due to—to put it delicately—a particular fear of not living up to your earlier boasting.”

The fire in her gaze told him at once that he’d won.