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Was there still hope? Dare she believe…
She chewed her lower lip. “You know I shall never marry?”
“Yes,” he breathed, finally looking into her eyes. “Just as you know I shall not.”
“Then,” she began, “your intention is to…”
She didn’t finish. She didn’t need to. A sudden realization settled in Mr. Branok’s eyes, and he pulled back with a snap.
He withdrew his hand from hers and then took a step back down the stairs. “Forgive me,” he breathed, shaking his head and averting his gaze. “I did not wish…you must think…” He trailed off. “No, I have no excuse. My behavior is unacceptable. Especially after what I shared with you about…Forgive me, Miss Fernside. I shall treat you with better respect from this moment forward.”
Understanding settled on Lark. Of course. He feared doing the same thing with her that had been said about him years ago. But that was not what this was. Was it?
“No,” she said with a shake of her head. She could not end the evening having him think she judged him or that she was not just as much to blame. “No, you did not act alone. I also…”
But it was no use. He shook his head, backing down another step. “You trusted me, and I would not wish for you to think that what I said before was anything but the truth.”
“I do not think that,” she tried again.
Once more, he withdrew, turning around and speaking over his shoulder. “Forgive me. I should never have stopped you from retiring from the evening. Goodnight, Miss Fernside. I hope this will not disturb your opinion of me.”
With that, he turned around and walked away.
Lark stared after his broad shoulders and long stride, regret overcoming her.
She never should have asked him what he was doing. She’d been foolish. She’d merely wanted a response—words that mentioned how he’d longed to kiss her because he could not help himself, because he found her—the real her—more irresistible than any woman he’d ever known.
But once again, she’d opened her mouth and spoken abrasively instead of holding her tongue.
And how she regretted it.
Wretched dress. She never should have put it on.
Chapter 17
Yorkshire – April 16, 1817
Lark’s regret for interrupting her moment with Mr. Branok only amplified over the next few days, for the change in the gentleman was palpable. Not only did his stolen glances stop, but so did his sparkling eyes, teasing comments, and encouraging words.
He was not unkind by any means—indeed, he was still tenfold more respectful than Mr. Chumley and Mr. Dunn—but the marked difference was difficult to accept, causing the rest of the week to be more than trying for Lark and her declining mood.
On Wednesday, she gleaned great amounts of information from Mr. Branok about how to make better recordings in her field journal, including how to organize her findings, record weather and location, and write down specifics relating to the environment and habitat in which she observed the bird.
She wanted to share with him how grateful she was for his insight, how impressed she was with his advice and knowledge, but to her disappointment, the man spoke with everyone in the class but her.
On Thursday, he managed to compliment a sketch she’d made of a yellow-throated wood warbler—the exact bird she’d thought she’d seen when Mr. Drake had proposed to her. This memory of Mr. Drake irritated her to a degree, but it was merely a mask to the hurt she felt for Mr. Branok’s continued disregard.
By Friday, any hurt or irritation she knew shifted entirely to desperation, so much so that she found herself motioning for Mr. Branok to sit near her for the meal in an effort to let him know that all was well—at least on her side.
However, the man mumbled an unintelligible excuse, then went out of his way to sit beside Mr. Chumley instead. A handful of those nearby saw the dismissive act and cast sympathetic glances toward Lark, which only proved to make her pride smart.
She reminded herself to forgive—just like she’d said she would the night they’d spoken together. After all, she knew he was merely behaving out of guilt and regret for nearly kissing her.
Yet, no matter how many times she reminded herself of those facts, her embarrassment festered until it molded to form a dense lump of anger within her heart.
His treatment of her was entirely unfair. After all, she hadn’t asked for his attention. She hadn’t asked him to tease her, to speak with her, to whisper with her, to flirt with her. Granted, she had worn that blue dress on purpose, but then, she’d chosen to leave that evening for a reason. She was—almost entirely—blameless in the situation, and now she was the one suffering because of it. She was the one being humiliated in front of everyone because of him.
This knowledge proved to anger her further, so much so that when she retired each evening and was greeted by the sight of his books on her bedside table, she had to fight off any temptation she had to throw them all into the fire so that she might watch the flames devour the man’s written words. However, she was intelligent enough to know the wealth of knowledge within them was beyond Mr. Branok’s ungentlemanly behavior. So, night after night, they were left untouched on the table.
