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“That was a painful story,” she said.

“Everyone has a story and everyone knows pain,” he said. “It is self-indulgent to burden other people with one’s own unless there is a good reason.”

“There is a good reason now?” she said.

“Yes,” he said. “Though I apologize if I have made you feel unbearably uncomfortable. I would like to hear your story sometime, Stephanie. When I visit Ravenswood, you seem like a perfectly tranquil, uncomplicated family, which has known little suffering except the premature death of your father. Owen has never been forthcoming with your family story, just as I have not been about mine. But I suspect there is more to tell, possibly a great deal more. Surely no individual and no family can get through the years without being assailed with some adversity. It is none of my business, of course, unless you choose to share yourself with me.”

She looked at him with a frown. “As you have chosen to share yourself with me,” she said.

“I was hoping to show you that really I am just a very ordinary man,” he said.

She half smiled, but she was looking down at her hand, which was spread palm down on the blanket between them.

“Oh, but no one is ordinary,” she said softly. “There is no such thing.”

“I have failed, then?” he said. Her words implied that everyone was extraordinary in some way, and she had decided long ago in what way he was extraordinary—handsome, rich, perfect. How he hated those descriptors.

She shook her head but did not say anything.

He set his hand on top of hers and turned it so it was palm up. He laid his hand flat on top of hers. His own was darker skinned, narrower, with longer fingers. Hers was soft and warm. He could think only of capable and comfortable to describe it, and neither sounded like a complimentary word. But he loved her hands. He remembered this one clasped in his as they waltzed on Christmas evening. One of the highlights of his life. How pathetic was that?

Really, of course, there was more than just comfort in the touch of her hand, then and now. There was also a certain longing, though that was not a good enough word. He could not think of one that more accurately described what he felt. Desire? But the feeling was not just carnal. Yearning, perhaps. To lace his fingers with hers, to clasp her hand tightly and smile into her eyes and know that they belonged together and were together.

Had he ever openly admitted to himself that he was in love with her? He was doing so now, it seemed.

She did not move her hand or say anything beyond uttering a soft sound, which might have been a sigh.

“Would you like to go out in one of the boats?” he said. “I promise I am competent at the oars.”

“So am I.” She laughed and looked up at him, sliding her hand from beneath his as she did so. “And if you should tip me in, I can swim to shore with the greatest ease.”

“I will have no chance to impress you with my courage and prowess at rescuing damsels in distress, then?” he said.

“Alas, no,” she said, “though I am sure you look very manly and picturesque when you are doing so.”

“Picturesque?”

They both laughed as they got to their feet, and she grasped two corners of the blanket to help him shake and then fold it. Nine out of ten women would have watched him do it alone. No, make that ninety-nine out of a hundred.

She did stand and watch, however, while he floated one of the boats and pulled it up to the bank. She took his hand to step in and lowered herself to the passenger seat before raising her parasol.

He rowed them away from the boathouse and the dower house into the larger part of the lake. It was surrounded by trees, almost to the banks in some places. He always loved watching their reflections in the water, no matter the season or weather conditions. By now they had thickened into their full summer foliage.

“Oh, how beautiful,” she said. “It really is very different from the lake at Ravenswood. That is more open, with wide views in almost all directions. This is secluded, with all the focus upon the water itself.”

“And what it reflects,” he said.

“I sometimes think trees are the loveliest of creations,” she said. “Until I remember daffodils, that is, and roses and mountains and birds and butterflies. I have only seen pictures of deserts, but even they must have their own beauty.”

“Provided one has plenty of water to drink while viewing them,” he said.

“And a camel to ride,” she said. “And what a work of creation camels are. And elephants.”

“And ants,” he said. “And long-legged spiders. And slithery frogs.”

She laughed and twirled her parasol, and he smiled at her with real pleasure. She looked purely pretty and relaxed with him. Was relaxation something she felt, though, or was it something she was determined to project since she had promised to allow him to prove something to her while she was here?

Must he overthink everything?