Page 104 of The Lyon Whisperer
“—Found homes for,” she interjected.
His dark eyes shone with undisguised amusement. “—must be Flora and Edward.”
She fell back into the cushions, succumbing to a fit of giggles. When she could talk, she sat upright and smoothed her skirts. Embarrassed heat spread over her from head to toe. “I beg your pardon, sir.”
“Whatever for? For your laughter?”
She lowered her eyes. “For myunladylikelaughter.”
He gave a grunt of dismissal. “I find your lack of feignedennuirefreshing. Now, kindly affirm or deny my theory. I’ve long wondered.”
He’d long wondered…about her? Her heart ached from the in-pouring of emotion.
She cleared her throat. “You are quite correct, sir. I adoredWaverley.You also enjoyed it?”
“I did. I’m curious about your thoughts on it, and, more to the point, why you chose the name Flora MacIvor as your alias.”
“Well,” she began, drawing out the word. “Our club voted on whether or not to read it and unanimously decided in favor.”
“How very democratic. Go on.”
“I went in not knowing what to expect, the genre of historical fiction being new to me.” She bit her lower lip. “I’m not sure how you’ll feel about what I have to say next.”
One corner of his mouth quirked upward. “Try me.”
“It’s just, I rather sympathized with the Jacobite cause as portrayed in the book, and, to be frank, I found it refreshing the author spared a moment to explore a viewpoint other than that which paints Great Britain as infallible. Not that I’m a stern Jacobite supporter of olden days, mind you, but I appreciated that the author took the time to thoughtfully consider both sides.”
She held her breath. Her husband was a renowned military leader. Would he take umbrage with her ideas?
He regarded her a long moment. “In games of state, the truth often lies somewhere in the middle—not always, mind you.”
“As in the case of Napoleon’s aggression.”
He inclined his head. “Just so.”
“As for why I chose to borrow the name of Flora MacIvor—”
He snorted, and she flashed him a grin. “I admired her outspokenness and selflessness. I cheered her willingness to sacrifice her own wants and needs for the greater good, unlike her counterpoint Lady Bradwardine.”
She waited for him to comment. When he did not, but merely stared at her with inscrutable dark eyes, she grew anxious. She felt bared, as if she’d inadvertently shared too much.
“What did you like about the novel?” she asked, smoothing her skirts.
“I thought it a good story, and historically accurate.”
The carriage rumbled to halt. They’d arrived at Bond Street, already?
Disappointment lanced through her at the prospect of parting ways before she could remind herself she had taken pains to assure such an outcome.
She gathered her small reticule and pelisse, preparing to exit the coach. “I shall see you on the journey back to Warren House. Perhaps we can continue our discussion then. Thank you for a diverting afternoon.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
With a breezysmile and finger wave, Amelia disappeared into the modiste’s shop.
Chase held up one hand in farewell even as the door swung closed, and the carriage lurched into motion, en route to his uncle’s townhome. Hunger hollowed out his insides.
He slumped back in brooding silence and shoved a hand though his hair. For God’s sake, it wasn’t as if he’d never see the woman again. They’d travel together back to Warren House in a matter of hours.
