the shade of blue lutestring she wore. Her brows arched upward. “So—you believe in fate?”
“More than the goodness of man,” he retorted with a raised brow.
She grimaced faintly. “I shan’t argue with you there.”
“I fought in Wellington’s campaign against Napoleon for three years and saw enough inhumanity to man to last me ten lifetimes. It makes one inclined to embrace the life of a hermit,” he muttered, a scowl drawing his dark brows together. Visibly shaking himself a second later, he forced a smile. “Humor a jaundiced soul and take the combs. Put them in your hair for me—if you think they’ll stay,” he added, surveying her curls. Her pale hair was clipped short in the dernier cri of fashion, only those women in the vanguard of the beau mode capable of carrying off the revolutionary style.
She hesitated briefly, the comb in her hand; and then, with a nod, obliged him, pulling back her curls at her temple and securing them.
“Perfectly lovely,” he murmured, not necessarily alluding to the comb.
“I thank you,” she replied with a faint dip of her head, and lifting the second comb from the box, she clasped back the curls on her opposite temple.
“I thank you more,” he said, an odd note of wistfulness in his voice. “I hadn’t realized how much I’ve missed the company of a beautiful woman.”
“Perhaps we’ve both been hermits too long.” It was a spontaneous utterance, but undeniably true.
“In regard to our overlong hermitages, may I say I’m very much looking forward to the views from Monastery Hill,” Duff observed, deliberately keeping his tone light. “I think I shall see them with fresh eyes.”
“I agree. I can’t recall when last I’ve been sightseeing.”
“Forgive me in advance, for I’m already taking advantage of your friendship, but do check with your mother when we get back and see if she’ll give you leave to attend the races.” Not wishing to frighten her off, he refrained from saying he would actually look forward to tomorrow if she were to say yes.
“I’d like that.” She chose not to parse her feelings or worry about what she should or should not say. She could blame the wine if she wished, although she knew better. Her good spirits had more to do with Duff’s charm than alcohol.
The cherry pudding suddenly arrived, reminding them to eat, and putting aside unhappy topics, they enjoyed a hearty meal, a jug of wine, and convivial conversation.
If it had been possible to define contentment, both parties would have agreed their meal at Bedloe Inn offered them an explicit précis of that feeling. Duff couldn’t remember when he’d last laughed so often or felt so joyful, while Annabelle relished their time together as though it were forbidden fruit.
It couldn’t last.
But while it did, she would take delight in every moment.
Chapter
9
T he views from Monastery Hill were more spectacular than either had remembered, the valley below spreading out lush green and fertile as far as the eye could see, the patchwork of fields bucolically dotted with grazing livestock, the river flowing through the flat as blue as the summer sky.
They sat on a horse blanket Duff had spread on the ground and talked of other times they’d sat thusly and seen the exact scene through a child’s eyes.
“Life was simpler then,” Duff murmured.
“Unarguably simpler,” Annabelle said with a sigh.
“Things will get better.” Eddie was too far away to hear, but had he heard, he would have danced a jig.
“I hope you’re right.” There were times she wasn’t so sure.
“Let me help you and your family.” As she opened her mouth to respond, he quickly added, “You’d be doing me a favor.”
“Come, Duff, don’t gull me. If ever a man had everything life could offer, it’s you.”
“Wealth alone isn’t enough.”
She snorted. “Don’t say that to those who struggle every day to put food in their mouths.”
“I understand. But it would
“More than the goodness of man,” he retorted with a raised brow.
She grimaced faintly. “I shan’t argue with you there.”
“I fought in Wellington’s campaign against Napoleon for three years and saw enough inhumanity to man to last me ten lifetimes. It makes one inclined to embrace the life of a hermit,” he muttered, a scowl drawing his dark brows together. Visibly shaking himself a second later, he forced a smile. “Humor a jaundiced soul and take the combs. Put them in your hair for me—if you think they’ll stay,” he added, surveying her curls. Her pale hair was clipped short in the dernier cri of fashion, only those women in the vanguard of the beau mode capable of carrying off the revolutionary style.
She hesitated briefly, the comb in her hand; and then, with a nod, obliged him, pulling back her curls at her temple and securing them.
“Perfectly lovely,” he murmured, not necessarily alluding to the comb.
“I thank you,” she replied with a faint dip of her head, and lifting the second comb from the box, she clasped back the curls on her opposite temple.
“I thank you more,” he said, an odd note of wistfulness in his voice. “I hadn’t realized how much I’ve missed the company of a beautiful woman.”
“Perhaps we’ve both been hermits too long.” It was a spontaneous utterance, but undeniably true.
“In regard to our overlong hermitages, may I say I’m very much looking forward to the views from Monastery Hill,” Duff observed, deliberately keeping his tone light. “I think I shall see them with fresh eyes.”
“I agree. I can’t recall when last I’ve been sightseeing.”
“Forgive me in advance, for I’m already taking advantage of your friendship, but do check with your mother when we get back and see if she’ll give you leave to attend the races.” Not wishing to frighten her off, he refrained from saying he would actually look forward to tomorrow if she were to say yes.
“I’d like that.” She chose not to parse her feelings or worry about what she should or should not say. She could blame the wine if she wished, although she knew better. Her good spirits had more to do with Duff’s charm than alcohol.
The cherry pudding suddenly arrived, reminding them to eat, and putting aside unhappy topics, they enjoyed a hearty meal, a jug of wine, and convivial conversation.
If it had been possible to define contentment, both parties would have agreed their meal at Bedloe Inn offered them an explicit précis of that feeling. Duff couldn’t remember when he’d last laughed so often or felt so joyful, while Annabelle relished their time together as though it were forbidden fruit.
It couldn’t last.
But while it did, she would take delight in every moment.
Chapter
9
T he views from Monastery Hill were more spectacular than either had remembered, the valley below spreading out lush green and fertile as far as the eye could see, the patchwork of fields bucolically dotted with grazing livestock, the river flowing through the flat as blue as the summer sky.
They sat on a horse blanket Duff had spread on the ground and talked of other times they’d sat thusly and seen the exact scene through a child’s eyes.
“Life was simpler then,” Duff murmured.
“Unarguably simpler,” Annabelle said with a sigh.
“Things will get better.” Eddie was too far away to hear, but had he heard, he would have danced a jig.
“I hope you’re right.” There were times she wasn’t so sure.
“Let me help you and your family.” As she opened her mouth to respond, he quickly added, “You’d be doing me a favor.”
“Come, Duff, don’t gull me. If ever a man had everything life could offer, it’s you.”
“Wealth alone isn’t enough.”
She snorted. “Don’t say that to those who struggle every day to put food in their mouths.”
“I understand. But it would
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