sensibilities—or his balance—could withstand physical interplay.
In seven long months, it was the first time he’d been treated like he was… normal .
Of course he knew how deeply he’d missed it. But he hadn’t realized until right this moment that he could have that feeling again. Of belonging, of bantering, of being himself.
Even if he would never truly be himself again.
He dropped her hand. “Yes, I remember your room. Wheat farmers. Weavers. Miners. Workhouses. Orphans. Apothecaries. Particularly in the areas of training and methodology.”
Her beautiful mouth fell open. “You listened to what I said? And memorized my causes?”
“I recalled, not memorized. Soldiers are trained to remember things.” He gave her a devilish smile. “Shall I tell you more about the contents of your wardrobe?”
Her cheeks flushed. “I already know what’s in my wardrobe. I don’t know what’s in your mind. Those are the things I most care about. What are your opinions on the topics you recall?”
He dipped his head. “Honestly?”
She leaned forward, nodding as if eager to hear his insights and hidden depths.
He gave her the truth. “I don’t have any opinions.”
Not in the way she meant. He had plenty of opinions, one of which was: you can’t save everyone, no matter how hard you try. He’d sacrificed enough. ’Twould be foolish to add hopeless causes to the mix.
She stepped back, disappointed. “You said you read the newspapers!”
He shrugged, knowing it would vex her. She shouldn’t have illusions about him. He was here to help her escape her guardian, not become a white knight. “Reading newspapers doesn’t mean I’m a ‘crusader.’ It means I’m bored. And literate.”
Her eyes flashed. “If you’re bored, it’s your own fault. Interesting people are never bored.”
“I wasn’t always a wretched bore.” He had barely had time to sleep. Wine. Women. Waltzing. Gaming. Pugilism. Adventure. The army was only more intense. Troops. Weapons. Enemy soldiers. Stratagems. “My days were far too busy for boredom to set in. Or to develop strong opinions about weavers and wheat farmers.”
Her lips pursed as she considered him. “What fills your days now?”
“Nothing,” he said simply. Although he found her idealism endearing, he did not share it. The war had taught him that some fights just couldn’t be won. “After what I’ve been through, I quite prefer it.”
“But the farmers—”
“You may keep your causes, my dear.” He brandished his wooden leg with a self-mocking smile. “I’m done crusading.”
Chapter Eight
The following morning, Daphne’s eyes flung open in a panic. Sun trickled in around the shutters. She closed her eyes as quickly and as tightly as she could, but it was too late. Saturday was here. The changes would begin.
Today she was officially out of mourning. She could wear colors again. Dance at assemblies. Wed the suitor of her guardian’s choosing. Dread made her fingers shake and her limbs leaden.
She rolled over and buried her face in her pillow. Lucky her. She didn’t want to do any of those things. There was no one she wished to wed. And she would mourn the loss of her father the rest of her life. No matter what color she happened to be wearing.
Her cheeks heated as she thought back to the previous day. She certainly hadn’t felt like she was in mourning when Bartholomew was around.
When he was near, his presence muddled her brain. Made her think of foolish things, like the width of his shoulders or the strong line of his jaw.
When he kissed her hand, heat spread through her. When he’d lifted her from the horse, letting her body slide down his in a most shocking and brazen manner… her bones had nearly melted. If he had let go of her just then, she would surely have crumpled to his feet. And wrapped her arms about him.
She had never doubted his reputation as a rake. She now wondered if all he had to do was stand still and let the
In seven long months, it was the first time he’d been treated like he was… normal .
Of course he knew how deeply he’d missed it. But he hadn’t realized until right this moment that he could have that feeling again. Of belonging, of bantering, of being himself.
Even if he would never truly be himself again.
He dropped her hand. “Yes, I remember your room. Wheat farmers. Weavers. Miners. Workhouses. Orphans. Apothecaries. Particularly in the areas of training and methodology.”
Her beautiful mouth fell open. “You listened to what I said? And memorized my causes?”
“I recalled, not memorized. Soldiers are trained to remember things.” He gave her a devilish smile. “Shall I tell you more about the contents of your wardrobe?”
Her cheeks flushed. “I already know what’s in my wardrobe. I don’t know what’s in your mind. Those are the things I most care about. What are your opinions on the topics you recall?”
He dipped his head. “Honestly?”
She leaned forward, nodding as if eager to hear his insights and hidden depths.
He gave her the truth. “I don’t have any opinions.”
Not in the way she meant. He had plenty of opinions, one of which was: you can’t save everyone, no matter how hard you try. He’d sacrificed enough. ’Twould be foolish to add hopeless causes to the mix.
She stepped back, disappointed. “You said you read the newspapers!”
He shrugged, knowing it would vex her. She shouldn’t have illusions about him. He was here to help her escape her guardian, not become a white knight. “Reading newspapers doesn’t mean I’m a ‘crusader.’ It means I’m bored. And literate.”
Her eyes flashed. “If you’re bored, it’s your own fault. Interesting people are never bored.”
“I wasn’t always a wretched bore.” He had barely had time to sleep. Wine. Women. Waltzing. Gaming. Pugilism. Adventure. The army was only more intense. Troops. Weapons. Enemy soldiers. Stratagems. “My days were far too busy for boredom to set in. Or to develop strong opinions about weavers and wheat farmers.”
Her lips pursed as she considered him. “What fills your days now?”
“Nothing,” he said simply. Although he found her idealism endearing, he did not share it. The war had taught him that some fights just couldn’t be won. “After what I’ve been through, I quite prefer it.”
“But the farmers—”
“You may keep your causes, my dear.” He brandished his wooden leg with a self-mocking smile. “I’m done crusading.”
Chapter Eight
The following morning, Daphne’s eyes flung open in a panic. Sun trickled in around the shutters. She closed her eyes as quickly and as tightly as she could, but it was too late. Saturday was here. The changes would begin.
Today she was officially out of mourning. She could wear colors again. Dance at assemblies. Wed the suitor of her guardian’s choosing. Dread made her fingers shake and her limbs leaden.
She rolled over and buried her face in her pillow. Lucky her. She didn’t want to do any of those things. There was no one she wished to wed. And she would mourn the loss of her father the rest of her life. No matter what color she happened to be wearing.
Her cheeks heated as she thought back to the previous day. She certainly hadn’t felt like she was in mourning when Bartholomew was around.
When he was near, his presence muddled her brain. Made her think of foolish things, like the width of his shoulders or the strong line of his jaw.
When he kissed her hand, heat spread through her. When he’d lifted her from the horse, letting her body slide down his in a most shocking and brazen manner… her bones had nearly melted. If he had let go of her just then, she would surely have crumpled to his feet. And wrapped her arms about him.
She had never doubted his reputation as a rake. She now wondered if all he had to do was stand still and let the
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