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He bowed over her offered hand. His fingers were warm around hers, his touch brief enough that she could scarcely object to noticing it. “Charlotte.” She had meant to offer him a chair. For a moment, she could only look at him. His smile deepened a little. “You told me to ask what you wanted when I arrived. Have you decided?”

It took her a moment to recall her parting remark at Rosedale House. “Tea would be an excellent beginning.”

He grinned. “I shall do my best to impress you.”

“By drinking it?” She lifted a brow.

“Without spilling any,” he deadpanned.

She laughed despite herself and indicated the chair beside the sofa. “An ambitious undertaking. Do sit down.”

He waited until she had settled before taking his seat. Afternoon light brightened the drawing room. She had opened the windows a little, admitting the scent of the garden and the distant sounds of passing carriages. She had arranged it entirely for her own pleasure. Comfortable chairs, good reading light, and flowers chosen without regard to anyone else’s preferences filled the room.

Alexander glanced around it. “You look at home here.”

“I should hope so,” she told him. “As the decor took a considerable time to arrange to my liking.”

“I was thinking of you,” he told her. “Not the furnishings.”

Charlotte adjusted the book beside her. There had been a time when she would have welcomed such a remark without examining it. Now she searched beneath it for the expectation, the suggestion that his presence would make her more comfortable. He offered none. Instead, he held out the volume he had brought. “I thought you might enjoy this.”

She accepted it and turned it to read the title. It was another account of travels abroad. “Does this author approve of anything?”

“Quite a number of things,” he added. “I thought he might restore your faith in leaving England.”

“You remembered my dislike of the other travel book.” She hadn’t added that he remembered her desire to travel. She had never been given the opportunity and doubted she would at this late date.

“You gave a very thorough account of the other fellow’s complaints,” he said. “But that is not the only reason I am giving you this tome.”

She opened the cover. “Have you read it?” She did not address the latter remark. It touched on more than she wished to discuss with him. At least not on this first visit. When had she started to expect more than one visit? No. He would not be returning.

“Yes,” he said, allowing her to skip over his statement. “Some of his observations are sensible. Others are sufficiently mistaken to keep you entertained.”

She nodded. “Then I shall have the pleasure of deciding whether I agree with you.”

“I was hoping you would.”

Charlotte looked up. His expression was easy, though his attention remained upon her face. He had brought her something to discuss. Something she could dislike without disappointing him. It was a thoughtful choice, and it touched her. “Thank you,” she said. “I shall take good care of it.”

“Keep it, if you wish.”

She tilted her head. “I may write disagreeable remarks in the margins.”

“Then I should like to borrow it afterward.” He grinned.

The tea's arrival spared her the need to answer with anything more revealing than a smile. She poured, remembering his preference before asking it. A little milk, no sugar. Her hand paused above the sugar bowl, and she felt foolishly exposed. “Unless your tastes have changed,” she added.

“Not in that respect.” She handed him his cup.

Their conversation settled more readily than she had expected. He told her about the house he had inherited. It included a library window that had leaked for years because his brother considered a strategically placed basin a sufficient remedy. She described the trouble she had taken to persuade her gardener that an empty patch of earth didn’t need an ornamental urn. She told it with her hands, shaping the urn’s pompous curve in the air and then sweeping it aside, and was a little surprised to find herself enjoying the telling. The gardener, it seemed, had treated it as a matter of professional honor and had held out for nearly a month. She had told this story to no one but Daphne, and she had never told it with someone listening so closely.

“What did you want there?” Alexander asked. He leaned forward, forearms on his knees, as though she were reciting something far more important than garden furniture. The candlelight softened his face, and she looked away, smoothing her skirt.

“A bench,” she told him.

“A controversial choice.”

“Apparently, it lacked distinction,” she said, sniffing in mock offense. She lifted her chin, annoyed that the corner of her mouth tugged upward as he laughed.