hazarded.
“Close? No, I wouldn't say we were close. My father is the Earl of Moreton," he thought to add. "He's dying; the doctors have given him half a year at the most."
"I'm very sorry. How terrible for you. You must..." She trailed off, seeing his expression, which he imagined was more amused than grief-stricken. "It must," she amended nervously, "be very hard on your family."
"No, not really. We don't care for one another much in my family."
She thought that over, gazing off through a patch of woods that flanked the road on her side. "I suppose you'll return to Rye, then, after your father's gone?"
"Yes, for a little while. Long enough to hear the will read, at any rate."
"And then you mean to return to Lynton for good?"
He laughed at that. "Lord, no. Why would I? I'll be rich, Mrs. Wade, and I'll be an earl. 'Why then, the world's mine oyster, which I with sword will open.' Or, more aptly in my case, with purse." She said nothing. "You're silent," he noted. "I think I hear disapproval in your silence."
"Not at all. Certainly not."
"Certainly not. You wouldn't presume."
"No, I would not."
"Ah. My mistake, then. But tell me, Mrs. Wade, if you were in my place, which would you choose: a life of absolute luxury and comfort, spent anywhere you liked, Paris, Rome, Constantinople, anywhere in the world, with time and the means to explore every earthly pleasure that man in his wicked ingenuity ever devised—that's on the one hand. Or a residence in what we might in charity term a backwater, populated by the salt of the earth, brave, honest souls who nevertheless lack a certain je ne sais quoi —sophistication, shall we say. A wholesome life, no question of that, lived close to God's good clean earth, but—-forgive na&—perhaps a trifle too close. WelK" be prompted. "Come, which would you choose? You might think of it as a choice between a fast Arab stallion and a big, sturdy Clydesdale."
Her lips quirked. "My lord, I can hardly decide which of my two dresses to put oh in the morning. I'm afraid deciding between two completely different styles of life would be quite beyond me."
He'd suspected from the beginning that an arid sense of humor lurked somewhere beneath all the reserve. She showed him new facets of herself every day. What might it be like to have a normal conversation with her, both of them speaking naturally, unconstrained by status, or fear, or sexual politics? Diverting, perhaps—but that wasn't why he'd gone to the trouble of employing her. If he wanted normal conversation, there were any number of women with whom he could have it. Mrs. Wade was meant to serve an altogether different function.
He'd noticed her looking slightly less nunlike of late, and now he tried to guess why. It wasn't her clothes, which remained steadfastly black or brown and unrelievedly somber. It wasn't her face, which had more color but not much more animation than on the day they'd met. She still glided rather than walked, but he'd discovered that was natural, not learned, her usual, quite graceful way of moving. The difference was partly in her posture, the way she held herself— not stooped any longer, as if she expected the sky to fall in at any moment. She walked with her shoulders back and her chin up, meeting the world head-on. It was a small shift, but it changed everything. Her slender figure looked youthful because of it, not careful and pained, almost decrepit. It pleased him to see the change, and intrigued him to speculate on what other surprises she might have in store for him.
Oddly enough, as soon as the thought had fully formed in his mind, she changed again. Conversation on her end ceased. Her luminous eyes dimmed, and she stopped looking about her, training her gaze on the ground in front of her feet, holding onto her elbows.
Sebastian glanced around, trying to see what could have caused this abrupt withdrawal, but there was nothing. Except that they'd entered the village. Was that it? Cottages
“Close? No, I wouldn't say we were close. My father is the Earl of Moreton," he thought to add. "He's dying; the doctors have given him half a year at the most."
"I'm very sorry. How terrible for you. You must..." She trailed off, seeing his expression, which he imagined was more amused than grief-stricken. "It must," she amended nervously, "be very hard on your family."
"No, not really. We don't care for one another much in my family."
She thought that over, gazing off through a patch of woods that flanked the road on her side. "I suppose you'll return to Rye, then, after your father's gone?"
"Yes, for a little while. Long enough to hear the will read, at any rate."
"And then you mean to return to Lynton for good?"
He laughed at that. "Lord, no. Why would I? I'll be rich, Mrs. Wade, and I'll be an earl. 'Why then, the world's mine oyster, which I with sword will open.' Or, more aptly in my case, with purse." She said nothing. "You're silent," he noted. "I think I hear disapproval in your silence."
"Not at all. Certainly not."
"Certainly not. You wouldn't presume."
"No, I would not."
"Ah. My mistake, then. But tell me, Mrs. Wade, if you were in my place, which would you choose: a life of absolute luxury and comfort, spent anywhere you liked, Paris, Rome, Constantinople, anywhere in the world, with time and the means to explore every earthly pleasure that man in his wicked ingenuity ever devised—that's on the one hand. Or a residence in what we might in charity term a backwater, populated by the salt of the earth, brave, honest souls who nevertheless lack a certain je ne sais quoi —sophistication, shall we say. A wholesome life, no question of that, lived close to God's good clean earth, but—-forgive na&—perhaps a trifle too close. WelK" be prompted. "Come, which would you choose? You might think of it as a choice between a fast Arab stallion and a big, sturdy Clydesdale."
Her lips quirked. "My lord, I can hardly decide which of my two dresses to put oh in the morning. I'm afraid deciding between two completely different styles of life would be quite beyond me."
He'd suspected from the beginning that an arid sense of humor lurked somewhere beneath all the reserve. She showed him new facets of herself every day. What might it be like to have a normal conversation with her, both of them speaking naturally, unconstrained by status, or fear, or sexual politics? Diverting, perhaps—but that wasn't why he'd gone to the trouble of employing her. If he wanted normal conversation, there were any number of women with whom he could have it. Mrs. Wade was meant to serve an altogether different function.
He'd noticed her looking slightly less nunlike of late, and now he tried to guess why. It wasn't her clothes, which remained steadfastly black or brown and unrelievedly somber. It wasn't her face, which had more color but not much more animation than on the day they'd met. She still glided rather than walked, but he'd discovered that was natural, not learned, her usual, quite graceful way of moving. The difference was partly in her posture, the way she held herself— not stooped any longer, as if she expected the sky to fall in at any moment. She walked with her shoulders back and her chin up, meeting the world head-on. It was a small shift, but it changed everything. Her slender figure looked youthful because of it, not careful and pained, almost decrepit. It pleased him to see the change, and intrigued him to speculate on what other surprises she might have in store for him.
Oddly enough, as soon as the thought had fully formed in his mind, she changed again. Conversation on her end ceased. Her luminous eyes dimmed, and she stopped looking about her, training her gaze on the ground in front of her feet, holding onto her elbows.
Sebastian glanced around, trying to see what could have caused this abrupt withdrawal, but there was nothing. Except that they'd entered the village. Was that it? Cottages
Similar Books
