LITMIR.BIZ

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her opinion. She told me all about midnight races and something called the Wild Hunt Club, if I remember correctly. Strange—you don’t seem like a dissolute rake. You certainly didn’t take advantage of me yesterday, though I suppose that is not quite a criterion since I can’t imagine anyone, even if he was a rake, making advances to every woman he comes across, especially if she isn’t in the least pretty. It would be quite wearying, wouldn’t it? Particularly if he already has a mistress and Mrs Sturges said that Lady Felton is an accredited beauty. In fact, by that logic rakes would be less likely to make advances to all and sundry, wouldn’t they?’

      Hunter struggled to find a reasonable response to this barrage, or even to manage his own response to her. Out of all the improper and thoroughly damning statements she had let loose with such insouciance, the one that caught his attention was her condemnation of her own looks. It was said with such matter-of-factness and with just a touch of wistfulness that he almost protested. But the need to contradict her statement was submerged by the same confusion he had experienced when facing her last night. In the light of day the difference between this woman and the girl he had thought he was engaged to was even more pronounced. The sun-kissed face looking at him in uncritical interest, though not beautiful, was remarkable in its way. Her wide grey eyes were slightly slanted and framed by the most amazing eyelashes he had ever seen, long and silky and definite and, like her brows, several shades darker than her hair. Her mouth, too, was remarkable—generous and lush and there was a faint white scar just below its right corner. Without thinking, he reached out and touched his finger to the line.

      ‘I don’t remember this when I saw you in Leicestershire. What happened?’

      Her lips closed tightly and she stepped away from him and he could have kicked himself not only for his insensitivity but for his irrational reaction to that imperfection, a surge of concern and protectiveness that only arose with regard to the very few people he considered under his care. But if his intention had been to deflect her from her inquisition, it worked.

      ‘I was thrown from a horse. It was my fault. But Juniper—the horse—is fine. I know it’s ugly.’

      ‘What? No, it’s just—’ He broke off. There was nothing he could say to explain, to her or to himself, why he had reacted that way. Why he had wanted to touch it and the line of her lip as it curved in. He looked down at the newspaper, trying to find his footing. Then he turned back to her resolutely.

      ‘Why don’t we sit down, have something to eat and then talk this over sensibly?’

      Her eyes glinted at him.

      ‘There is a pattern forming here. You appear to think I will be more amenable once fed.’

      ‘I certainly will be. I’m useless without my morning coffee.’

      Her smile widened, but she nodded and went to the sideboard. He kept the conversation light as they ate, telling her about Petra’s and Pluck’s successes at the racing meets, a topic which she clearly was happy to explore until she had finished her last finger of toast.

      ‘I’m so happy they are content with you. I still miss Pluck, but I knew Father would never let me keep her, so I’m glad she is with Petra. Well, now that we’ve eaten I admit to being impatient to hear what you are planning.’

      ‘What makes you think I am planning anything?’

      ‘I don’t know, but I’m quite certain you are. You have a look.’

      Hunter, who had a reputation for being unreadable at the piquet table, barely refrained from asking what this ‘look’ was, drummed his fingers on the table and wondered how to play his cards. This was not precisely how he had imagined his dealings with a near-schoolgirl would progress. For better or worse she was a bright young woman and he had better start treating her as such.

      ‘May I ask what you plan to do once you are freed of this engagement?’

      She considered him, clearly debating whether or not to confide in him.

      ‘I will probably go to Bascombe, but first I will find someone respectable to act as companion or Father or...or my aunt will think they have a duty to come...’

      Her voice faded and the haunted look he had seen at Tilney returned. The last time he had seen that expression before her had been on Tim’s face. Every day since he rescued him from that French hell and until the day he killed himself. Hunter uncurled his hand from the cup before it shattered. He was right to run. He didn’t need this.

      ‘Bar the gates, then,’ he said, a bit more roughly than he had intended. ‘Bascombe’s gates are flanked by two portly gargoyles which make the point quite vividly.’

      Her eyes focused back on him and he relaxed as the edge of a smile returned as well.

      ‘Gargoyles?’

      ‘Your grandmother’s idea. At least if they were decent sculptures it might be forgivable, but they look like drunken gnomes about to fall off toadstools.’

      The smile widened.

      ‘Then my first order of business shall be to remove them. I don’t think they would intimidate Aunt Hester anyway. She might even like them. She has the most awful taste.’

      ‘I remember she told me the horrific banquet room at Tilney Hall was her design. Send her the gargoyles as a gift, then.’

      She half-laughed and covered her mouth to stop the sound.

      ‘I’d just as happily drop them on her,’ she said daringly and he smiled. ‘Meanwhile I shall write to a schoolmistress I know to come stay with me.’

      ‘And then?’

      She smoothed the tablecloth with her finger.

      ‘I haven’t decided yet. But I do know I don’t want a marriage of convenience without affection or love.’

      He managed to stop his expression from exhibiting what he thought about that last statement. Of course the girl would be dreaming of love. She came from a girls’ school, for heaven’s sake. The place must be a hotbed of silly novels and soulful sighs.

      ‘Those are two very different qualities. What people call romantic love is not much more than a glorified term for mundane physical passion and tends not to outlive it.’

      She flushed, but met his gaze squarely. ‘I concede that passion is important, but love is an entity in itself. You are completely wrong to dismiss it so cavalierly.’

      He raised a brow at her dismissive tones.

      ‘Of course I am, being so very green,’ he said quietly. There was a limit to the abuse he would take from this young woman.

      ‘No, you’re not green, just wrong. I may have had very little experience of the world, but I have also been very lucky. When I lost my mother I thought I would never find anyone else who would care for me as much, but now I have other people I love, really deeply love, like Mrs Petheridge and my best friend Anna, and it would be devastating to lose them. I may not expect to find that depth of feeling with a husband, but there must be elements of that for it to be worthwhile marrying. That is what I mean by love. Working in a girls’ school where children can’t help but mirror the joy or pain of their families is a fairly good arena to explore that particular topic. I have had excellent opportunities to observe the products of the kind of union this betrothal might lead to and I have excellent reasons for refusing. I grew up knowing what it is like to be insignificant and powerless and I will never put myself in that position again.’ She leaned back, her Nordic sea eyes narrowed and challenging. ‘But this discussion is pointless. Why don’t we discuss what you are really interested in—the Bascombe water rights. Well, I promise I won’t be in the least unreasonable. I don’t want to be at war with my neighbours. There is no reason why we cannot come to an agreement that is fair for all parties.’

      Hunter shifted in his chair, battling the urge to give her as thorough a lecture in return. It would be cruel to take from her anything that had been so painfully won by pointing out that relations between men and women were substantially

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