“May we bring the toys?”
“Yes, but gather them quickly.”
Both children sprang into action, stuffing tin toys into their pockets and cramming more than three in each fist. Then they were gone, the trail of their chatter and footsteps echoing in the turret stairwell.
The room became smaller. Quieter.
“I will not suffer you to speak here.” Simon turned and wiggled the window back shut. “We will take a carriage ride, if you are obliged, as it will spare us this heat.”
“If that is what you wish.”
Without looking at her, he pointed to the door. “After you.” He followed her back down the stairwell, sweat damp on the back of his neck, a rare discomfort flipping his stomach.
What was he doing?
He should have remained in the turret room. He should have allowed her the few moments she needed, escorted her back downstairs, and sent her back where she belonged.
Away from Sowerby House.
But the room had been too intimate, with all the paintings staring down at him, crying things from his soul, things he feared she would still see in his eyes if he looked at her.
No, the carriage ride would be best.
He could handle the reins and remember all the reasons he had never wanted to marry Miss Georgina Whitmore. Was that the matter she wished to discuss with him? Had she reconsidered his offer of marriage?
He bit the inside of his cheek at the strange confusion thumping his heart. He was not certain he could allow that to happen. Not for Sowerby or his mother or father or anyone else.
Before, perhaps.
Before he knew her better.
But not now.
CHAPTER 13
They were young all over again.
Everything was the same but different.
Georgina sat next to him in the curricle, the road stretching out before them into lush green countryside. White yarrow and orange poppies dotted the pastures. Golden sunlight outlined the tops of distant trees, stone fences, and faraway tenant cottages.
“I think I know why you came.”
Something in his voice made her look at him.
He was stiff. He was grave. He was…handsome, unbearably handsome, with his strong jaw and his fine nose and his eyes so aflame with fervency. He felt everything with such depth. He always had. All his emotions poured out so easily—in his words, his paintings, his expressions, while all hers were locked so deep inside herself no one would ever see them.
She wished she could let them loose.
If only she were brave. Strong.
Like him.
“I no longer wish to ask it of you,” he said.
“Ask what of me?”
“Marriage.”
