Page 25 of Gentlemen Prefer Heiresses
The full moon as well as a lantern suspended from the bow of the small boat guided them along the river. She didn’t think they were on the Thames, didn’t really know where they were, didn’t care. Instead she absorbed the peace and tranquility of the water gently lapping against the boat, the slap of the oars, the splash of a fish. The quiet of the man sitting across from her.
It was odd that when she was with him, she didn’t need conversation. When she was with others, she always felt she was being judged—her dress, her manners, her mien, her refinement. Were any of them proper enough to gain her a husband? What if she were poor? Would she spend her life alone? Wealth was a pitfall that lead to insecurities and complications when it shouldn’t.
“Somerdale called on me this afternoon.” He groaned. Perhaps from the strain of rowing, although she didn’t think so. “As did Manville and Wheatley.”
“Seems you have a virtual cornucopia of suitors.”
He sounded displeased which pleased her. “Have you ever courted a woman?”
“I have no plans to marry.”
Which wasn’t exactly an answer to the question. “I know I’ve asked before but you didn’t give a very succinct answer: Have you ever been in love?”
“Again, no plans to marry.”
She frowned. “You can love without marrying. What about your actress? Surely you cared for her.”
“Immensely, but I did not love her, nor did she love me. We were together because we enjoyed each other’s company.”
She couldn’t imagine the actress hadn’t fallen in love with him just a little. “Did you make her laugh?”
“On occasion. What has that to do with anything?”
“Tillie says you can’t really love someone who doesn’t make you laugh. Or at least, you shouldn’t marry someone who doesn’t make you laugh.”
“Does Somerdale make you laugh?”
She shook her head. “No. I like him well enough, but he’s trying too hard to win me over. It seems love should come about more naturally, more of a slow awakening, a realization he’s the one you want to clasp your hand when it’s wrinkled and frail and you’re old. Your parents hold hands. They touch often: a shoulder, an arm, the small of the back. I can tell they do it without thinking. That’s the sort of love I want. One that doesn’t require any thinking.”
“If you never think about it, you can take it for granted.”
“For someone who avoids love, you seem to have considerable knowledge regarding it. Who broke your heart?”
She could feel him studying her. Limned by moonlight as he was, his silhouette was clearly visible but she couldn’t detect the subtleties in his facial expressions. They were lost to the shadows. Rubbing her hands, she realized she might have pushed a bit too far. “It’s chilly out here.”
“Is the blanket not warding off the cold?”
“It’s helping some.” She was also wearing a pelisse he’d told her to bring. But there was a slight breeze that wanted to work itself into the very marrow of her bones.
She watched as he took the oars from the water and set them along the sides of the skiff. Shoving himself off the bench, he settled into the bottom of the boat and held out his hand. “Come here.”
Her heart fluttered as she took his hand, slid onto her knees, turned around, and wedged herself between his legs, her back to his chest. He brought up the sides of his coat and she snuggled in deeper against the heat provided by his body. “Oh, that’s lovely. It’s always so much more rewarding to be warmed after I’m cold. I appreciate it more.”
“Mmm.” His voice was a low thrum near her ear and the bristles lining his jaw brushed enticingly against her cheek. He closed his bare hands around her gloved ones, and additional warmth seeped into her being.
“Tell me about her,” she demanded softly.
“Gina—”
“I know there was someone. Perhaps you didn’t love her, perhaps she didn’t break your heart, but you don’t learn to avoid the fire until you’ve been burned. And you must admit you have an aversion to love. I won’t tell a soul. Your secrets are always safe with me, Andrew.”
“I can’t be the only one revealing secrets. If I answer, you must share with me the most intimate thing you’ve ever done with a man. And if our kiss last night is your answer, then you must tell me the most intimate thing you’ve ever imagined doing.”
The fog was rolling in, and she couldn’t help but think it was taking all the air with it as she was having a frightfully difficult time drawing in a breath. She nodded—no doubt unwisely. “I accept your terms.”
His arms closed more securely around her, wrapping her in a cocoon of heat.
“When I was nineteen,” he began quietly, “I met a woman, two years’ my senior, who intrigued me as no other female had. I’d yet to take an interest in balls, debutantes, or courtship but for her I recited Browning’s poems and Shakespeare’s sonnets, wrote poetry, sang ballads. I was quite... smitten.”
