He snapped his hand away in a movement sharp enough to break bone. And with one long step, rounded her and fled the gazebo. “I see treating you like a reasonable woman is unnecessary.”
Clutching the railing, she called after him, “I’m more reasonable than a man who thinks he can shape the world to his liking in every way. Martin and Selena are more than mere box hedges you can plant and move about the lawn.Hide behind.” She’d got him. Caught hold of his pride and yanked it clear off him like a tattered cloak.
He froze, cast her a look over his shoulder that would have sent any other woman running. “You always do have to have the last word, don’t you?”
“Because my words are better than yours.” Oh, his jaw was tick, tick, ticking—a powder keg, an imminent explosion. And that vein pulsing on his forehead that the rogue lock did nothing to hide—it had leapt to angry life as the skin stretched taut over his knuckles drained of life entirely. Then he strode away, leaving her with no words, nothing but the horrifically entrancing sight of his leg muscle working beneath the wool of his buckskins.
She may have had the last word, but he’d always possessed the very finest of arses. She slapped her cheek. “What nonsense,” she mumbled. “What absolute nonsense.” She strolled the length of the gazebo and back several times, trying to work out her frustration, before finally collapsing instead with a huff on a bench.
No use denying. Impossible to do so though she very much wished she could. But her body did not care what her mind wanted. It still harbored the girlish attraction she’d felt for him ages ago when she’d thought him an easygoing man, always aware of others’ needs, working ceaselessly to make everyone feel comfortable, acting as a bridge between his two half brothers—the gentleman and the rake. Mr. Clark—Richard—had been better than them both. He’d seen her hesitant on the edges of their group and looped her into its very center, made her feel… a part of something.
An act. He’d abandoned her readily enough, allowed his friend to abandon her cousin. He’d proved himself a beast back then, and he was still one now. That should be enough to snuff out attraction entirely.
As long as she didn’t drop her gaze to his arse.
Beatrice wandered toward the others strolling about the garden. When she reached the tall box hedges that bordered the perimeter of the garden, she stopped, hesitating in the private shadows where no one could see her, but she could see all. Where was Selena? She couldn’t simply walk into that collected group of people without a clear destination. No better way to feel adrift, to feel like unwanted, floating detritus after a shipwreck.
There was Selena, talking with a man. Oh. Not just any man. Mr. Martin Fisher, tall and lean and smiling as he’d ever been.
They stood just out of reach of one another, biting their lips, studying their feet. Selena fidgeted with ribbons while Martin rubbed a gloved hand through his yellow hair. The strands of it floated up and out as he beat a rhythm with his hat against his leg. They laughed, their bodies naturally leaning, shrinking the distance between them.
And Beatrice clasped her hands against her chest. Perhaps the old hurt was gone for Selena. Perhaps she could move on now. And perhaps it was good, after all, that they had come. Selena could put the past behind her finally.
And Beatrice could find a man to teach her the pleasures of the body.
“You know,” a voice said right behind her.Hisvoice. “You should not insult a man’s box hedges, then use them for your own nefarious activities.”
“I was merely seeking shade. It is unusually hot.” She found her fan in her pocket and snapped it open, then stalked off. A retreat. Humiliating. But necessary.
He followed. His long, smooth strides were enough for him to catch up with her and keep pace. “It is a bit hot. And only April.”
“Why won’t you leave me alone?” She snapped her fan closed, stuffed it back into her pocket.
“I couldn’t let you have the last word. It has been itching at me. I hate being itchy.” His hands were still in his pockets, rolling his broad shoulders forward, an old attempt to lessen the impact of his presence. He failed. At least with her, he did. Perhaps she was too small for the trick. When he rolled those massive shoulders forward around her, he seemed to curve himself into a soft yet impenetrable shield. He blocked the sun. He blocked the wind and the world. There had been a time it had felt like protection. Now it nipped like an annoying, yapping dog at her ankles.
“Haven’t you already had the last word?” she asked.
“That was you. I distinctly remember.”
“Oh yes. You had thefirstwords. What were they? Hm.” She tapped her lips. “Ah. I remember. ‘No wonder she’s a spinster.’ You’d rather marry a cow than?—”
“Beatrice.” The curve of his body deepened, bringing his eyes close and glittering to her own.
She stood her ground, lifted her chin and—oh. Oh no. Unintentional that—the scant inches between their lips, the heat of his breath across her face.
“I didn’t mean it,” he whispered.
“The hell you didn’t.”
“I was angry. I… was scared. It’s been so long.”
“Scared of little me?” She fluttered her eyelashes.
“Of course. You are absolutely terrifying.” He made it sound like a compliment. “Do not pretend you don’t know it.”
“You cannot flatter me, Clark.”
“I’m not trying to, Bell. It’s the truth.”
