She flicked a sugar cube at him with a grin. “Not everyone can have hair like yours.”
He did not trust himself to answer what with all the ridiculous pride beaming within him. Never once had he felt pride over his hair. He wanted to press, so he’d press. “Hair like mine? And what’s that like?”
She studied the top of his head. “Brown, but a shade so complex, I’d have to study for ages to name all the different colors there. Thick. A tad too long to be fashionable, but perfect for playing with.” She leaned forward, her fingers stretching toward his hair line, her eyes focused on her goal. “It’s quite enough to make a lady forget, and break, every rule she’s ever known.” Her fingers almost brushed against his forehead.
“Would you like to play with my hair, Jane?” He could not help himself.
She jerked her hand back, dropping it into the protection of her lap. “Hmph. No. Of course not.” She scooted her chair another hair farther away. “Apologies. I do not know what has come over me these days. I’ve felt so strange.”
He’d felt strange, too.
She cleared her throat. “So, you think I should choose Newburton?”
George did not like this. Not a bit. The response from Martha had filled him with hope that he could marry. Sooner than he’d ever thought possible. And keep his bride safe. Keep Jane safe. Because, if he were to marry this very instant, that’s who his bride would be.
His soul begged for her, and any touch or look she rewarded him with entrenched his desire further. He did not want her to jolt back from touching him. But he could not take the necessary steps, say the words needed, to discover if her impulse to touch him was more telling or if it was the jerk away from him that he should listen to.
She wished to avoid a love match. Telling her the contents of his heart was likely not a winning strategy. But he could not deny everything he felt for her. Could he suppress it, lie about it, convince her to marry him for convenience’s sake alone?
And what if she did not want him at all? Not his hand in marriage, not his mind, not his heart, not his body.
He could find out about the latter easily enough, test his theory that Jane felt the same addicting pull toward him he felt toward her. It would not take much.
Bad idea.
Excellent idea, actually.
If he knew she felt nothing but brotherly affection for him, he would forget her, return to his widowed paramours in London, and be satisfied. He could advise her to choose Newburton and be done with it.
And if he discovered his nearness made her as breathless as hers made him?
His palms broke out into a sweat.
The results of such an experiment might prove disastrous, heartbreaking. But he would take that risk.
George scooted his chair a bit closer to hers.
She scooted a bit farther from him.
Damning, that.
She dropped the blanket away from her face, and it slid off her shoulders.
He reached forward and pulled it back up, tucking her back into its warmth.
“S-so, Newburton?” she asked, with a stutter or a shiver he could not tell.
“Do you want to marry Newburton?” He kept his hands clenched around the edges of her blanket, pulling it tight under her chin. His knuckles brushed the skin under her chin, and she shivered. He pushed closer, opening his legs wide and almost straddling her body, bringing her into the warm core of his own.
Her throat bobbed. “Want has nothing to do with it. I will marry him. He is the logical choice.”
Her face was shadowed by the blankets, the shawls, the hat. He pushed it all back enough to clearly see her lips, her cheeks, her gently sloped nose, and her dark eyes.
“And if there were another choice?” he asked.
Her body stilled like a rabbit caught by a hunter right before it flees. “There is no other.”
“Is there not?”
