Or worse still, her heart.
What a ridiculous thought, that. The very supposition that even the tiniest weeds offeelingcould find a place to take root in the meager, barren soil of her heart. Thrusting one arm beneath her, Charity shoved herself upright once more, throwing off his arm in the motion. “I ought to be going. Will you do up my laces?”
“I’ll bungle it, most likely,” he warned, even as he rose once more.
She offered a shrug. “Redding has got my pelisse. Even if you do, no one will see. And it is good practice, besides.” For Lady Cecily, she reminded herself. Not forher.
And still, she enjoyed the fumbling of his fingers, theoccasional brush of them against her skin as he worked at the task she had laid out for him. More than she shouldhave done. More, certainly, than was wise.
Chapter Thirteen
In his seat upon a sofa across from Lady Cecily Wainwright, Anthony selected a biscuit from the plate offered to him and wondered if there were anything morally objectionable in paying a call—not courtship in itself, but something that might become the prelude to it—upon a woman when one wasn’t, in the strictest sense, presently free to marry.
Or when one was planning to attend a Cyprian’s ball in the company of the woman who was presently one’s wife. Legally speaking, at least.
Like as not, most men would judge the answer to be a resoundingno. But then, most men viewed their own marital vows as somewhat more flexible than Anthony would have ever cared to do. Many marriages skewed more to the side of business arrangements than to love matches. He had just—
He had just never envisioned his own eventual marriage in that manner. His parents had been, in every memory he had of them together, deeply in love. He hadn’t realized just how unusual it had been until he had been already a man grown—but having seen it himself, he knew it was possible.
But was it possible forhim? With Lady Cecily?
“Are you fond of poetry, Captain Sharp?” Lady Cecily inquired as she dropped a lump of sugar into her tea. Her third. Probably he should have heeded Charity’s advice and brought her some sort of sweet.
Probably he should be making more of an attempt to keep his mind upon the lady whose company he was presently in, and off of the one who wished only to be free of him. “I suppose,” he said. “Why do you ask?”
“Because you’ve had that volume perched upon your knee for the last ten minutes,” she said, with a tiny nod to indicate the book balanced there. “Lord Byron’sHours of Idleness,” she said.
Damn. He’d forgotten entirely that he’d been meant to give it to her. “Have you read it, then?”
“I have. Truth to tell, Byron is not among my favorites.” A tiny wince, as if she feared she might have offended. “I understand he is quitepopular—”
“No,” he said, relieved. “I understand completely. His works are not among my favorites, either.”
“Really?” Intrigued, she canted her head to the side. “May I ask why you brought it, then?”
“Because heispopular,” he said, abashed. In truth, he had simply selected a volume at random from amongst those that Charity had left out for him. The selections she had thought would be inoffensive, easy to find common ground upon. And now he was thinking of her again! He chewed back a sigh. At least she had been correct, he supposed. Only that common ground had been a mutualdislikeof the poetry she had selected. But it was something, at least. More than he had expected to find in a mere fifteen minutes.
Lady Cecily laughed lightly. “I hope you will not be offended if I elect not to borrow it from you,” she said. “I have my own copy, of course, in my library. But I haven’t cracked the spine since I first read it a good number of years ago.”
“Yes, well, I’m afraid my own library is somewhat lacking. Having been out of the country so many years has left me woefully behind in many respects. I doubt I’ve much within it that would not be tediously familiar to you.” Or perhaps simply tedious, if her tastes did not run parallel to those of the rest of theTon.
“Then perhaps you will instead allow me to lend you something,” she said, sipping her tea. “In recompense for the lovely roses you sent to me. I’ve a fair few more recent volumes.”
“You need not go to any great trouble on my behalf,” he said. “But I am glad the roses were not so tedious as the poetry.”
He’d won another chuckle from her, and the dimples her amusement carved into her cheeks brightened her face. Shewasrather attractive. Fair, unblemished skin that suggested she always wore a bonnet and carried a parasol when in the sun. Blond hair that held its curls well, pinned perfectly into place. Green eyes the shade of summer grass. Probably she had quite a few suitors already—and yet she had been kind enough to save over a bit of time for him anyway. Had addressed him as Captain Sharp, when he had expressed a preference for it.
“I adore plants of all kinds,” she confessed. “The garden is full of flowers, most of which I’ve planted myself.”
“Have you?” He didn’t think he’d ever met a lady who worked with her hands for anything more strenuous than stitching a sampler.
“Oh, yes. And I’ve agreenhouse, where I keep my more delicate specimens; the ones requiring particular conditions in which to thrive.” A moment of hesitation. “If I might be so bold, Captain, could I make a request of you?”
“Of course,” he said.
“Should you feel so called to send flowers again, might you make it a live plant instead?” A faint flush burnished her cheeks, as if she thought perhaps she had been entirely too bold in her request. “It’s just that—when the stem is snipped, you see, the flower begins to die. But a bloom with roots might live for years and years. It makes me a bit sad,” she said, “to see them go before their time.”
A good, kind woman. Even to plants. And he thought—he didn’tloveher; not yet. But he didlikeher. And that was something, wasn’t it? “I suppose you could be said to collect them, then,” he said. “Plants, I mean to say.”
