asked me that question.”
He smiled wryly. “An indisputable truth, I am sure. Are you enjoying yourself right now?”
Annabel’s heart flipped in her chest. “Very much so,” she said, unable to believe how even her voice sounded. She must be getting better at the playacting that passed for conversation in town.
“I am so pleased to hear it.” He leaned toward her ever so slightly, his head dipping to the side in a gesture that was almost self-deprecating. “I do pride myself on being an excellent host.”
Annabel glanced down at the blanket, then looked back up at him with dubious eyes.
He gazed at her warmly. “One must be a good host, no matter how humble the domicile.”
“Surely you are not trying to tell me that you make your home on Hampstead Heath.”
“Gad no. I’m much too fond of my creaturecomforts for that. But it would be amusing, don’t you think, for a day or two?”
“Somehow I suspect that the novelty of it all would fade with the morning light.”
“No,” he mused. His eyes took on a faraway expression, and he said, “Perhaps a bit after that, but not by the morning light.”
She wanted to ask him what he meant, but she didn’t know quite how to do it. He looked so lost in his own thoughts it almost seemed rude to interrupt. And so she waited, watching him with a curious expression, knowing that if he turned to her, he would see the question in her eyes.
He never did turn to her, but after a minute or so, he said, “It’s different in the morning. The light is flatter. Redder. It catches the mist in the air, almost as if it creeps up from underneath. Everything is new,” he said softly. “Everything.”
Annabel’s breath caught. He sounded so wistful. It made her want to remain right where she was, on the blanket beside him, until the sun started to rise on the eastern horizon. He made her want to see the heath in morning light. He made her want to see
him
in the morning light.
“I should like to take a bath in it,” he murmured. “The morning light, and nothing else.”
It should have been shocking, but Annabel sensed that he wasn’t talking to her. Throughout the conversation he’d prodded and teased, testing how far he could go before she turned prude and ran away. But this … It was perhaps the most suggestive thing he’d said, and yet she knew …
It hadn’t been for her.
“I think you’re a poet,” she said, and she was smiling, because for some reason, this brought her great joy.
He let out a short snort of laughter. “That would be lovely, were it true.” He turned back in her direction, and she knew that the moment was gone. Whatever hidden part of himself he’d dipped into, he’d put it back, boxed it up tight, and once again he was the devil-may-care charmer, the man all the girls wanted to be with.
The man all the men wanted to be.
And she didn’t even know his name.
It was best that way, though. She’d find out who he was eventually, and he’d do the same, and then he’d pity her, the poor girl forced to marry Lord Newbury. Or maybe he’d scorn her instead, thinking that she was doing it for the money, which of course she was.
She gathered her legs underneath her, not exactly kneeling but rather resting on her right hip. It was her favorite way to sit, utterly wrong for London but without a doubt the way her body liked to arrange itself. She gazed in front of her, realizing that she was looking away from the house. There was something fitting about that. She wasn’t sure which way a compass would point, though; was she facing west, toward home? Or east, to the Continent, where she’d never been and likely never would go. Lord Newbury didn’t seem the type to enjoy travel, and as his interest in her was limited to her childbearing talents, she rather doubted he would allow her to venture forth without him.
She’d always wanted to see Rome. She probablywould never have gone, even if there had been no Lord Newbury lusting over
He smiled wryly. “An indisputable truth, I am sure. Are you enjoying yourself right now?”
Annabel’s heart flipped in her chest. “Very much so,” she said, unable to believe how even her voice sounded. She must be getting better at the playacting that passed for conversation in town.
“I am so pleased to hear it.” He leaned toward her ever so slightly, his head dipping to the side in a gesture that was almost self-deprecating. “I do pride myself on being an excellent host.”
Annabel glanced down at the blanket, then looked back up at him with dubious eyes.
He gazed at her warmly. “One must be a good host, no matter how humble the domicile.”
“Surely you are not trying to tell me that you make your home on Hampstead Heath.”
“Gad no. I’m much too fond of my creaturecomforts for that. But it would be amusing, don’t you think, for a day or two?”
“Somehow I suspect that the novelty of it all would fade with the morning light.”
“No,” he mused. His eyes took on a faraway expression, and he said, “Perhaps a bit after that, but not by the morning light.”
She wanted to ask him what he meant, but she didn’t know quite how to do it. He looked so lost in his own thoughts it almost seemed rude to interrupt. And so she waited, watching him with a curious expression, knowing that if he turned to her, he would see the question in her eyes.
He never did turn to her, but after a minute or so, he said, “It’s different in the morning. The light is flatter. Redder. It catches the mist in the air, almost as if it creeps up from underneath. Everything is new,” he said softly. “Everything.”
Annabel’s breath caught. He sounded so wistful. It made her want to remain right where she was, on the blanket beside him, until the sun started to rise on the eastern horizon. He made her want to see the heath in morning light. He made her want to see
him
in the morning light.
“I should like to take a bath in it,” he murmured. “The morning light, and nothing else.”
It should have been shocking, but Annabel sensed that he wasn’t talking to her. Throughout the conversation he’d prodded and teased, testing how far he could go before she turned prude and ran away. But this … It was perhaps the most suggestive thing he’d said, and yet she knew …
It hadn’t been for her.
“I think you’re a poet,” she said, and she was smiling, because for some reason, this brought her great joy.
He let out a short snort of laughter. “That would be lovely, were it true.” He turned back in her direction, and she knew that the moment was gone. Whatever hidden part of himself he’d dipped into, he’d put it back, boxed it up tight, and once again he was the devil-may-care charmer, the man all the girls wanted to be with.
The man all the men wanted to be.
And she didn’t even know his name.
It was best that way, though. She’d find out who he was eventually, and he’d do the same, and then he’d pity her, the poor girl forced to marry Lord Newbury. Or maybe he’d scorn her instead, thinking that she was doing it for the money, which of course she was.
She gathered her legs underneath her, not exactly kneeling but rather resting on her right hip. It was her favorite way to sit, utterly wrong for London but without a doubt the way her body liked to arrange itself. She gazed in front of her, realizing that she was looking away from the house. There was something fitting about that. She wasn’t sure which way a compass would point, though; was she facing west, toward home? Or east, to the Continent, where she’d never been and likely never would go. Lord Newbury didn’t seem the type to enjoy travel, and as his interest in her was limited to her childbearing talents, she rather doubted he would allow her to venture forth without him.
She’d always wanted to see Rome. She probablywould never have gone, even if there had been no Lord Newbury lusting over
Similar Books
