Chapter Twenty-Two #2
“Just a shield,” she said simply. “A defense tactic. If no one knows the real Sebastian—not those women you slept with, not anyone you meet who sees you only as some sort of playboy—then you can’t be hurt when they underestimate you.
If you set their expectations low yourself, then you avoid any chance of disappointing anyone. ”
He was silent for a long moment, then abruptly stepped closer to her still—close enough that she had to tilt her head back to look him in the eyes.
“And if you convince yourself that no one in this village could possibly do without you, then you don’t have to find the courage to chase after what you really want.”
Georgie took a step back. “I didn’t ask for your opinion—the opinion of someone who’s leaving on a train to London tomorrow, who will prance away without another thought for me.”
“Why don’t you ever pay attention?” he asked, reaching out to take both of her hands in his, his grip firm without being painful, strong enough that it would have taken some effort for her to wriggle herself free.
“What have I done for the past week, other than try to show you how much I cannot stop thinking of you—how brilliant I think you are? How clever? How impressive, and beautiful, and maddening, and…” He trailed off, searching for something that seemed to evade him.
“How perfect I think you are,” he finished, and she blinked as if she’d been struck.
“No,” she said, her cheeks flushing from his words, which in turn somewhat contrarily made her feel a bit angry, because there were few things on earth she despised more than blushing.
She refused to stand here and let this man call her perfect, of all things—not when he wasn’t going to stay. Not when he couldn’t be hers.
“You were flirting, and being charming—the same as you do with everyone else. And you kissed me, and—and all the rest—because you’re—well, you’re bored, I suppose, since there are no other ladies in the village to romance.”
“No, Georgie.” He laughed then, a sharp laugh that was not at all similar to the usual winsome sound of his chuckle.
“I kissed you, and all the rest, because I am falling in love with you, and I don’t know how to tell you.
” He shook his head. “Except I suppose I just did. And I suppose it doesn’t matter, if you’re never going to take me seriously.
” He loosened his grip and raked a hand through his golden hair, mussing it just as her fingers had two nights earlier.
Georgie stood as though rooted to the spot, unable to make the words he had just uttered come together in her mind in an arrangement that made the slightest bit of sense.
I am falling in love with you.
He couldn’t be.
“You can’t be in love with me,” she said definitively, placing her hands on her hips.
“I do think I have the right to make that decision for myself,” he shot back, looking more frustrated by the moment, and if the situation hadn’t been so serious, Georgie would have found herself badly tempted to laugh. Naturally they couldn’t even manage a declaration of love without quarreling.
“I—you—this is absurd!” She threw her hands in the air. “You live in London!”
“You could move to London.”
“No, I couldn’t.” She laughed incredulously. “Have you not listened to anything I’ve told you since you arrived? I’m needed here.”
“No.” He shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’ve made yourself needed here.
You’re frightened to admit that you want something more than life in Buncombe-upon-Woolly, and telling yourself that you can’t possibly leave because no one could survive without you is the easiest way to avoid facing the truth. ”
“And what truth is that?” she shot back.
“That you want to move to London—that you want to see more of the world—that you have dreams that lie beyond this village, but you’re too frightened to reach for them.”
“You know nothing about my life,” she said sharply, his words prickling at her skin like nettles.
“You think that you can waltz into the countryside and that we’ll all immediately take your word as the most important, simply because you live in London and work for a famous detective—you think that you can charm me, and that I’ll suddenly fall in love with you and listen to whatever you say, believe that you are right—”
“I promise you,” he said evenly, color in his cheeks to match her own, “I rarely think I am right. I’ve been reminded plenty of times that the opposite is usually true.
” There was no hint of hurt or wounded pride in his voice, and yet Georgie felt a pang in her chest at the words all the same.
“And, to be clear, I think you are the cleverest woman I’ve ever met, and it’s a privilege to be in your company, to watch you think, to watch how you work.
You are brilliant, Georgie,” he said, more fervent now, reaching out to take one of her hands in his once again.
“And I want you to see it. To realize that you deserve your own dreams.”
“I have dreams,” she said, more quietly now.
Admitting this aloud made her feel small, vulnerable, soft in a way that she tried to protect herself from ever feeling.
A week ago, she would have laughed in the face of anyone who suggested that Sebastian Fletcher-Ford, of all people, could make her feel this way.
But much had changed in the past week, somehow without her fully realizing it.
“I know you do,” he agreed. “But you’ve convinced yourself that they’re not as important as ensuring that everyone else in your life is well cared for.”
“What would you know of it?” she snapped.
Rather than recoiling at her tone, he smiled. “You’re trying to drive me away, and it won’t work,” he said. His hand was still holding hers. “You told me not three minutes ago that you saw through me. Well, I see through you, too, Georgiana Radcliffe.”
“No, you don’t,” she said stupidly, because she couldn’t think of anything else to say, when it felt as though his words had pierced her to her very core.
She turned, fumbling a bit with her bicycle, and flung one leg over the seat.
“And, for the last time, I told you I don’t need any help getting home. ”
And with that, and a quick, somewhat clumsy kick of the pedals, she was off, cycling down the high street, leaving him alone in the warm glow of light that spilled from the doorway of the Shorn Sheep.
She allowed herself one last glance at him, standing there looking golden and a bit rumpled and frustrated and so handsome that, truly, it ought to be illegal, and then she wrenched her gaze forward again.
Leaving him behind her, where he belonged.