Page 13 of A Gentleman Never Surrenders
I shouldn’t like his smile. But I do. Lord help me, I do.
“Shall I ask the first question?” she volunteered, and dipped some of her bread into the thick soup, soaking it up before she nibbled on the slice.
Owen chuckled. “You may.”
She studied him for a long while, then asked her question. “What do you love about Wesden Heath?” She’d heard it mentioned, had seen its listing as his major landholding, but hadn’t been there or to the Cotswolds before, where she knew Wesden Heath was located.
Owen’s eyes softened and his smile was so tender it surprised her.
“Wesden Heath is full of color. That’s what I love most about it. It is full of wildflowers, and everything is green most of the year, save deep winter. When I came back from fighting, it was the only place that left me feeling safe.” He chuckled softly. “I suppose that makes me sound foolish, but it’s true. It’s why I love my home.”
Milly held her breath, stunned to see clear on his face and hear in his voice the truth of that. If he was after money to save a home that had saved him…She tried to bury the rush of sympathy for him that arose inside her in that moment. Thankfully, he laughed and spoke again.
“Oh, and there are the Cotswold lion sheep. I loved our herds, when we raised them.”
“Lion sheep?” she asked, leaning toward him curiously.
“That’s a new question. It’s my turn.” He waggled a finger at her, then reached for his glass of wine and sipped.
Milly had never heard of lion sheep and she was delighted at the way the game was playing so far; there was a strange anticipation to waiting to learn more about him.
“What is your favorite novel?” he asked.
The question surprised her. “Novel? Well, I recently finished J. M. Barrie’s Peter and Wendy. It’s fairly new, only published last week. Have you heard of it?”
Owen set aside his soup bowl and tucked into his shepherd’s pie. “Barrie. He’s a playwright, isn’t he? I believe I remember the play but didn’t know he’d written a novel. What do you like about Barrie’s book?”
This time it was Milly’s turn to waggle a finger at him. “Oh no, it’s my turn now. What are lion sheep?” She forgot her sense of decorum as they talked and she lifted her skirts to tuck her legs up underneath her in a curled position on the chair.
“Oh, you little clever creature,” he teased with a merry twinkle. “Very well, the lion sheep.” He went on to describe them, and she realized how crucial they were. A staple of the Cotswolds area for wool and food.
“They’re tall beasts, and extremely intimidating,” Owen finished, but Milly burst out laughing in delight.
“Sheep intimidating? How so?”
Owen handed her a glass of wine. “Trust me, when you see one, you’ll understand exactly what I mean. Now, why do you like Peter and Wendy?”
She sipped her wine, relishing the way it spread warmth all the way through her.
“It’s a tragic story really, about a little girl who falls in love with a boy who will never grow up.”
Owen propped one arm on his chair. “I thought the book was about the boy?”
Milly shook her head. “You might think so, but it is really about the girl, Wendy Darling. How she finds love, then must abandon her childhood and her dreams, which are represented by Peter. She has to grow up. The plight of all women.” She glanced away, feeling suddenly foolish for trying to explain something that she had understood on a deeply personal level. She’d had to abandon her own dreams of love and freedom when she’d returned home from school in France and realized that living with a husband as an equal would likely never be possible. The husbands of England weren’t accepting and respectful of women as equals, not to the extent that she’d seen in France. Having to face that any man she married would see her as “less” even if he claimed to love her had broken her heart. It didn’t stop her from secretly hoping she’d find a man someday who would prove her wrong, but now it was too late.
“I suppose we men make it seem like we never grow up,” Owen said, his voice a little gruff as he once again stared at the fire. “But some of us do, at great cost.”
“You mean the war, don’t you?” she asked.
He nodded, his gaze meeting hers. “When you’ve tasted blood and taken lives, it leaves scars that never heal. I haven’t gone a single night without nightmares since I came home and it’s been years.”
There was such hurt in his eyes that Milly reached across the small table to rest her hand on his before she even realized what she was doing. He stared at their connection for a long moment and before she could pull away, he turned his hand over, so his palm touched hers and curled his fingers around hers, squeezing gently. The touch, so affectionate, tender, and genuinely unexpected from a man like him sent ripples of shock through her.
“Have you had enough to eat?” He nodded at her mostly empty plate.
“Yes,” she said. At this, she withdrew her hand from his and set her dishes back on the tray.
“Let me prepare a few foot warmers while you change.”
