“Do what?”
“Sunlight, of course.”
A laugh trilled out, mostly because she had no idea what he meant but partly because his ridiculous humor was so infectious. She hurried for her bonnet and shawl and against her better judgment did not even seek out Bridget before she went hurrying out the townhouse door with Mr. Kensley. Why did he make her feel reckless? As if they could abandon all rules of society and set off to play?
Now Father reallywouldchide her.
They walked together at a brisk pace, her hand looped in his arm, until they reached Hyde Park. But instead of following the footpath, they cut across fresh grass and disappeared from sight or sound of anyone.
Good sense should have warned her against such a thing. Indeed, just Lord Livingstone tugging her into a quiet alcove had seemed alarmingly dangerous.
But no danger could be found in this. If they broke rules of decorum, Mr. Kensley did so unwittingly. How strange he was. He seemed, at times, as if he had experienced very little of society. As if he’d been kept away somewhere and remained unexposed to the ways of the world.
Yet he was so jovial. So amiable. What could she make of such a puzzling persona?
When they reached the shade of an elm tree, Mr. Kensley plopped beneath it and patted the ground next to him.
She shook her head. “I hardly think so.”
“What?”
“Can you truly wish me to soil my dress with grass stains? Are you in earnest, Mr. Kensley?”
“Are you so afraid of them?”
“I would not blame my refusing to sit on fears, but rather a healthy sense of practicality.”
“Very well.” He leaned back against the tree, arms behind his head, and closed his eyes. “I shall enjoy the grass by myself, as you enjoy your practicality.” He breathed deep. “You smell that?”
“Smell what?”
“The air.”
She sniffed—then, because he was not looking—finally eased herself a foot away from him in the grass. How very impish. If Lilias did such a thing, she would complain of insect bites for weeks. “I fear it smells to me most like any air.”
“Yet it lacks chimney smoke and horseflesh, and all the other things of the city.”
“You are not from the city, I gather?”
“No.”
“Where are you from?”
He glanced over at her, but if he was annoyed that she asked, he showed no signs. “Rosenleigh.” His voice turned soft with the word, as if the place meant as much to him as Sharottewood meant to her. “Where the grass is so green and soft that, if you chance to lie down in a patch, it shall bewitch you.”
“You sound as if you love it very much.”
A nod.
“I wonder that you ever left such a place.”
“I wonder too.” He leaned forward and grabbed a handful of grass in his fist. He ripped it out. “But I have every intention of returning.”
“When?”
“I daresay, are you doing it again?”
“Doing what?”
