irately.
"Maybe. But you'll get it right eventually, I just know you will."
He shook his head, dismissing her faith in him, and brought the spoon to his mouth. It tipped slightly, and broth trickled down his chin and onto his shirtfront. A very tight, very strained, very determined smile gripped one corner of his mouth, and Amy knew then that he was not a man to give up on something once he put his mind to it. He tried again. Spilled more stew. Swore roundly. And got it right the third time.
Amy's shoulders, which had been tight with tension, relaxed.
"This is gorgeous," he said. "Thank you for keeping it warm for me."
"You're welcome." She watched him eat, admiring the shape of his fingers against the spoon, the easy, aristocratic grace of his movements, the way his hair, so thick and bright, was now drying in rich gleaming waves around his face.
"What is Juliet like?" she asked, a little wistfully.
He looked up. "Sorry?"
"Juliet. I was just wondering what she's like."
"Rather like me, I should say. Or rather like I was before I got hurt."
"You're the same man you were before you got hurt, Charles."
"Don't be fanciful, child, I'm not, and I never shall be." He dug his spoon into the broth, more forcefully than he had before. "As for Juliet —" he paused, as though the subject was a private one and he was unsure he wanted to discuss it — "she's a pretty girl with dark hair and fine green eyes. Your voices are similar, which is why I must've mistaken you for her when I, uh . . . when I kissed you."
"You must love her very much," Amy said, wishing that she had fine green eyes instead of huge, brown, boring ones.
"I do. And still I got her with child. Fine way to show someone you love them, eh?" His face looked suddenly bleak. "I cannot imagine I'll make much of a husband, now, and even less of a father." He stopped, surprised at how much he had revealed.
"I think you'll make a wonderful husband."
Lord Charles looked up at her emphatic tone, and Amy blushed a hundred shades of crimson.
"And father," she added, lamely.
His unseeing gaze remained on her for a long moment. And then, with an amused little smile, he looked down and resumed eating.
"I'm sorry," Amy stammered, blushing. "I — uh — I didn't —"
"Do you know, I think I shall have a second helping, after all," he said briskly, deftly cutting off her lame apologies and saving her from further embarrassment. Amy's heart swelled with gratitude even as she chastised herself for her impulsive words. Given what her sisters had said about him being her "pet man," and now the silent amusement in that one long gaze, he must certainly know the secrets of her foolish heart. Oh, what must he think of her?
"Miss Leighton?"
She nearly jumped out of her skin, terrified that he'd been able to read her thoughts.
"If you don't mind, I would love a bit more of this," he prompted, gently, holding the bowl between his cupped hands.
Warm smile. Warm eyes. Warm heart.
Would those beautiful hands be warm as well, touching her in places that no man ever had before?
"Yes — yes, of course." Red-faced, she rose, fetched his empty bowl and hurried to the kettle that still hung over the dying fire. "After all, we wouldn't want to send you back to Juliet looking as though we'd starved you. She'd think we Americans are a horrible sort."
"Oh, I doubt that. Juliet's as American as you are."
"She is ?"
He looked up as Amy set the bowl before him, a faint smile on his face. "Of course. Did you think otherwise?"
"Well, yes . . . I mean, you're a king's officer . . . I thought she must've come over from England with you."
"Heavens, no. She's the daughter of a Boston storekeeper."
"Not an aristocrat like you, then?"
"No, thank God."
Amy giggled.
"What's so funny?"
"For being an aristocrat yourself, you don't seem to like them much."
"Oh, it's not that. I was just thinking of the woman I would have
"Maybe. But you'll get it right eventually, I just know you will."
He shook his head, dismissing her faith in him, and brought the spoon to his mouth. It tipped slightly, and broth trickled down his chin and onto his shirtfront. A very tight, very strained, very determined smile gripped one corner of his mouth, and Amy knew then that he was not a man to give up on something once he put his mind to it. He tried again. Spilled more stew. Swore roundly. And got it right the third time.
Amy's shoulders, which had been tight with tension, relaxed.
"This is gorgeous," he said. "Thank you for keeping it warm for me."
"You're welcome." She watched him eat, admiring the shape of his fingers against the spoon, the easy, aristocratic grace of his movements, the way his hair, so thick and bright, was now drying in rich gleaming waves around his face.
"What is Juliet like?" she asked, a little wistfully.
He looked up. "Sorry?"
"Juliet. I was just wondering what she's like."
"Rather like me, I should say. Or rather like I was before I got hurt."
"You're the same man you were before you got hurt, Charles."
"Don't be fanciful, child, I'm not, and I never shall be." He dug his spoon into the broth, more forcefully than he had before. "As for Juliet —" he paused, as though the subject was a private one and he was unsure he wanted to discuss it — "she's a pretty girl with dark hair and fine green eyes. Your voices are similar, which is why I must've mistaken you for her when I, uh . . . when I kissed you."
"You must love her very much," Amy said, wishing that she had fine green eyes instead of huge, brown, boring ones.
"I do. And still I got her with child. Fine way to show someone you love them, eh?" His face looked suddenly bleak. "I cannot imagine I'll make much of a husband, now, and even less of a father." He stopped, surprised at how much he had revealed.
"I think you'll make a wonderful husband."
Lord Charles looked up at her emphatic tone, and Amy blushed a hundred shades of crimson.
"And father," she added, lamely.
His unseeing gaze remained on her for a long moment. And then, with an amused little smile, he looked down and resumed eating.
"I'm sorry," Amy stammered, blushing. "I — uh — I didn't —"
"Do you know, I think I shall have a second helping, after all," he said briskly, deftly cutting off her lame apologies and saving her from further embarrassment. Amy's heart swelled with gratitude even as she chastised herself for her impulsive words. Given what her sisters had said about him being her "pet man," and now the silent amusement in that one long gaze, he must certainly know the secrets of her foolish heart. Oh, what must he think of her?
"Miss Leighton?"
She nearly jumped out of her skin, terrified that he'd been able to read her thoughts.
"If you don't mind, I would love a bit more of this," he prompted, gently, holding the bowl between his cupped hands.
Warm smile. Warm eyes. Warm heart.
Would those beautiful hands be warm as well, touching her in places that no man ever had before?
"Yes — yes, of course." Red-faced, she rose, fetched his empty bowl and hurried to the kettle that still hung over the dying fire. "After all, we wouldn't want to send you back to Juliet looking as though we'd starved you. She'd think we Americans are a horrible sort."
"Oh, I doubt that. Juliet's as American as you are."
"She is ?"
He looked up as Amy set the bowl before him, a faint smile on his face. "Of course. Did you think otherwise?"
"Well, yes . . . I mean, you're a king's officer . . . I thought she must've come over from England with you."
"Heavens, no. She's the daughter of a Boston storekeeper."
"Not an aristocrat like you, then?"
"No, thank God."
Amy giggled.
"What's so funny?"
"For being an aristocrat yourself, you don't seem to like them much."
"Oh, it's not that. I was just thinking of the woman I would have
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