Page 23
“You think I’m frightened that I will not be able to win?” she questioned.
“Perhaps.”
“Very well.” A calm smile spread across her lips, accentuating her high cheekbones. “I shall make two things very clear for you right now, Mr. Branok. The first is this, I have never been afraid of my abilities not living up to anyone’s standards. Ever. And the second, I am fully aware that you are simply goading me with your irksome words so that I might accept your challenge. And while I am loath to admit that your tactics have been moderately successful, I find myself unable to say no due to my plain and simple desire to see you sufficiently humbled.” She raised her chin. “So…what is this challenge of which you speak?”
Henry grinned. “It is fairly straightforward. We simply make written note of each and every different bird we observe over the course of the tour in Yorkshire, Cumbria, and Cornwall. At the end of the excursion, the person with the most unique number of birds listed shall obtain the coveted title.”
She took but a mere second to respond. “Very well, I agree.” She pulled open the leatherbound book on her lap and flipped to a blank page. “Now, what of the rules?”
She turned to look at him, her head slightly tipping to the side so her blonde curls rested against her temples. She was a gorgeous creature, her curved eyebrows smooth and expressive above those almond-shaped eyes.
“The rules?” he questioned.
“Yes, rules,” she repeated, looking at him as if he were the unreasonable one. “We must have rules and agree to abide by them if we are to partake in this challenge.”
Heavens, she was taking this seriously. He wanted to throw his head back in laughter, but he maintained his composure, if only to not offend her.
He’d seen the insecurity in her eyes already—her lack of experience observing birds making her question herself around the others. That was part of the reason why he’d suggested the challenge. Her winning would give her the encouragement she sorely needed.
“I’m afraid I have not given much thought to any rules,” he said.
“Why does that not surprise me?” she muttered under her breath.
She scrawled some writing across the top of one page, then flipped to another and did the same again, clearly intending on creating a copy for each of them.
“Rule number one,” she stated without looking up. “We shall begin the competition the moment we step foot on the estate in Yorkshire. Otherwise, you will have already fallen behind due to the number of birds I’ve recorded from London.”
“Very fair, indeed,” he stated.
“We shall carry on with the competition from Yorkshire to Cumbria, be on hiatus when we return to London for the fortnight, then resume once we set course for Cornwall, yes?”
“Of course.”
Henry shouldn’t have been too surprised that she’d recorded birds already. He’d seen her writing down her observations about the house sparrow. How many more she’d seen during their stop, he could only guess.
He, himself, had spotted at least half a dozen already, though he would’ve found more had Mrs. Chumley not spoken to him throughout the entirety of the luncheon in Luton.
But all was well. Henry would certainly have more of a chance to spot birds once they arrived anyway. He really wasn’t concerned in the slightest about finding them. He’d spotted the greatest martin in Gibraltar, the transverse striped dove in the East Indies, and the crested hummingbird in the West Indies. He could easily find what he needed to in England.
Not that he had any intention of winning when Miss Fernside so clearly needed a victory. No, he would turn the challenge in her favor.
She finished writing the rule on one paper, then copied it to the next. “Rule number two,” she continued. “We mustn’t speak of our number until the end of the challenge.”
“Agreed.”
She wrote the next rule, this time pausing in between pages with a sigh. “You must excuse my penmanship,” she said, her voice still lowered. “I am not used to writing under such dreadful conditions.”
The carriage jostled as if on cue, and she sighed again, raising her pencil to wait for the passing bumps before progressing.
He leaned toward her to observe her writing, but a cloud scented of orange blossoms drifted around him. His leg was a hair away from her, their shoulders a mere inch apart.
She stole a glance at him but instantly whipped her gaze away, a blush splashing across her cheeks. He eyed the gentle slope of her neck as she leaned toward her writing again, her movements graceful, and he observed her as if she was the rarest bird in South Africa, instead of the fine woman she was, jostling in a carriage.
“I think you quite flawless, Miss Fernside,” he whispered.
She looked up at him, pulling back in surprise and creating more distance between them.
“Your handwriting, I mean,” he clarified, though he was quite certain his half-smile spoke the truth more than his words.
