Indiscreet by Mary Balogh Page A

the terrier would never win any prizes for obedience. She had clearly spoiled it.
    â€œToby, where are you?” he heard her call. “Toby?”
    And then, while he was in the process of taking two paws in his hands and setting them on the ground, she came into sight. She stopped and looked at him, and he looked back. This had been foolishness, he thought. Why had he done it? She was a virtuous woman and he wanted nothing to do with virtuous women. Not in a one-on-one situation, anyway.
    And what had happened to yesterday afternoon’s resolve?
    She looked beyond him, as if expecting to see Nat and Eden, and then back. She said nothing.
    â€œI, after all, am on my brother’s land,” he said. “What is your excuse?”
    Her chin came up. “Mr. Adams has opened the park to the people from the village,” she said. “But I am on my way back to the gate. It is time we went home.”
    â€œWalk back through the trees,” he said. “You can get from here all the way to the postern door and avoid the public path and the village. It is a much more pleasant route. I will show you the way.”
    â€œI know it, thank you,” she said.
    He should let it go at that. Walking back through the trees with her, leading his horse and waiting for her dog to exploreevery tree, would take at least half an hour. Quite alone with her among the trees. Claude would have his head.
    He smiled at her. “Then let me accompany you?” he asked. “You are quite safe with me. I do not indulge in seductions this early in the morning.”
    She blushed and he held her eyes with his, still smiling, pulling gently on that invisible thread between them.
    â€œI can hardly forbid you,” she said, “when I am the trespasser and you are the guest.”
    But she had not said any more about going back through the gate onto the road, he noticed.
    They walked side by side, not touching. Yet he felt quite breathlessly aware of her.
    â€œThe primroses are all in bloom,” he said. “The daffodils will be out soon. Is spring your favorite time of the year, as it is mine?”
    â€œYes,” she said. “New birth. New hope. The promise of summertime ahead. Yes, it is my favorite time of year, even though my garden is not as full of color as it will be later.”
    New hope. He wondered what her hopes were, what her dreams were. Did she have any of either? Or did she live such a placid and contented existence that she needed nothing else?
    â€œNew hope,” he said. “What do you hope for? Anything in particular?”
    She was gazing ahead, he saw when he glanced down at her. Her eyes looked luminous and he knew the answer to one of his silent questions. There was wistfulness in her gaze, longing.
    â€œContentment,” she said. “Peace.”
    â€œAnd do you have neither that you must hope for them?” he asked.
    â€œI have both.” She glanced quickly up at him. “I want to keep them. They are fragile, you know. As fragile as happily-ever-afters. They are no absolute state that one attains and then keeps forever and ever. I wish they were.”
    He had disturbed her peace. There was no accusation in her voice, but he knew it was so. And happily-ever-afters? Had she discovered with the death of a husband that there was no such thing? As he had discovered it with the fickleness of a betrothed?
    â€œAnd you?” She looked up at him more steadily. “What are your hopes?”
    He shrugged. What did he hope for? What did he dream of? Nothing? It was a disturbing thought but perhaps a true one. Only when one hoped for nothing and dreamed of nothing could one keep control of one’s own life. Dreams usually involved other people and other people could never be depended upon not to let one down, not to hurt one.
    â€œI do not dabble in dreams,” he said. “I live and enjoy each day as it comes. In dreaming of the future one is wasting