Page 35 of Hearts of Briarwall

He frowned, unaccountably irritated. “You think rather loudly.”

“I know it. My thoughts are quite demanding.”

“Even in the middle of the night.”

“Especially in the middle of the night.”

He blew out a sigh of frustration. “Have you ever been in love, Miss Wooding?” Well, he’d meant to keep that thought inside his head.

“Oh sure, scads of times.”

That was not the answer he expected. “Really? With whom?”

“Oh, Mr. Darcy, Laurie Lawrence, Mr. Rochester, and the Scarlet Pimpernel. Robin Hood. And Peter Pan, of course—”

He found himself laughing.

“Oh, you meant real people.” She smirked.

“Never mind,” he said, waving her off. “I’m not sure why I asked.” Indeed, he was sorry he asked.

A heavy silence settled between them.

“I once offered someone my heart,” she said quietly.

He tried not to be interested. And yet. “What happened?”

“He did not offer me his,” she said. “It was a long time ago. We were both young, and I think I mistook the thrill of being noticed for love.” She tipped her head toward him. “And he was too much of a gentleman to succumb to my wiles.” She waggled her brows, and he chuckled.

“So, in answer to your question, I do not know if I’ve ever truly been in love. But I hope if it comes, it hits so hard that neither party can deny it. Because otherwise, how do you know?”

He remained quiet for some time, having no answer for her question. Indeed, it was a question he’d asked himself after his own mistake with Catherine Bradshaw.

She covered a yawn. “Since we are too tired to guard our words more carefully, might I ask you a question?”

His pulse leaped as if to remind him to be cautious. “That depends on the question.”

“How was it that you and Andrew became friends?”

He heard the amusement in her voice rather than saw it, as they were in the thick of the woods now, and the horses had been given their lead home.

“He hasn’t told you?”

“My brother has not told me a great deal of things, Spencer Hayes. I’ve learned to ask questions if I wish to know things, and to expect an answer to only half of them.”

“I see.” He wondered if that was part of the change in her from the shy little girl to the sure-eyed young woman. “Well, it’s a simple story, really. I was a Colleger—”

“A what?”

“A Colleger. A member of the working class with enough wits about me to pass the entrance exam and get into Eton. My father had built his success and reached the higher echelons of his sphere, but that, as you know, does not make one gentry.”

She sighed. “No, it does not.”

“The irony is that Eton was built for the education of poor and lower-class boys, did you know?”

“I did not.”

“But over the years and the changes in policies, it became more and more difficult for those with fewer resources or connections to get in. I was rather lucky. Not that my family couldn’t afford it, mind you. Only that I had no connections. No family history with the school.”

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