Chapter 6 #2
“Are you attempting to point out Miss Bullocke’s flaws?” he asked playfully.
“Who?” she asked innocently.
He scoffed.
She knew perfectly well whom he referenced.
In the last month Ambrose had often been in the company of Miss Margaret Bullocke.
A foolish choice. Miss Bullocke had a littleness of spirit and a meanness of character that would destroy any chance of domestic felicity.
But Ambrose had not asked for Susanna’s opinion on the lady, and she was hardly going to reveal how closely she had been monitoring his companions.
They entered the library. It was smaller than the great room, and the displayed drawings competed with the books for attention. Only three other people were in the room, gathered at the left wall.
Ambrose walked to the first drawing on the right and she followed. He glanced at her eagerly before he began to explain the various notations on the page. Soon she was able to better understand what the plans were conveying and better able to ask questions.
For over half an hour they looked at drawings and discussed them.
She learned that he enjoyed the classical more than the gothic and preferred the simple to the overadorned.
Often their tastes aligned. She loved hearing him speak on architecture.
And judging by his smiles, he would happily continue talking for hours.
“Have you received training as an architect?” she asked, interrupting his explanation of dome construction.
“No.” He didn’t glance up from the drawings.
“You learned all on your own?” she pressed.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He cocked his head. “What is the point of these questions?”
“I am curious. You are passionate about the subject. Why did you not make it your profession?”
His brow furrowed and a darkness entered his eyes. “I was told it was not a profession fit for a gentleman.” He said the words as if he had quoted them many times.
“What nonsense. There are many well-respected gentlemen who design buildings.”
“I suppose,” he said curtly.
“And even if it wasn’t entirely genteel, you should not let that stop you from pursuing it. Not if you truly love it.”
He tossed his head. “I have made other plans for my life.”
She narrowed her eyes, not wanting to drop the subject.
“So you don’t want to create buildings of your own design?”
“You are confusing me with my younger self. It has been many years since I thought of such a thing.”
She smirked. “Many years? You forget I have seen your notebook.”
“How could I possibly forget that?” He crossed his arms over his chest. “And those are mere idle sketches. They mean nothing. I assure you, becoming an architect is not in my plans.”
“Sometimes the best things are those you can’t plan.”
“And many of the worst things,” he murmured.
She hated that he had a point.
Ambrose sighed. “More often the best things are achieved through careful planning and execution.” He gestured to the drawing before them of a domed mausoleum.
“The very building we stand in started as a drawing like this. It was with careful thought and meticulous planning that the designs were created. And then years of dedicated work to add each stone, each fixture. None of it happens without a plan.”
“True, but your life is not a building.” She smirked.
He threw up his hands and stalked to the next drawing.
She did not immediately follow him, judging it best to let him be. There was clearly more to the story of why he did not become an architect or builder—something that had him scowling and making speeches about the benefits of planning. She wished he felt comfortable sharing that story with her.
The other visitors left the room, leaving them alone in their strained silence. He abandoned the drawing he was looking at and rejoined her. She turned to him.
“There is nothing wrong with adhering to a plan,” he said earnestly.
“Did I say there was?” She furrowed her brow.
“Despite your dire predictions, I will be betrothed before the end of the week. And that is due to my excellent planning.”
“Betrothed?” She blinked, her mouth suddenly dry. “You aren’t marrying Miss Bullocke.”
He straightened his shoulders. “I intend to ask her.”
“That is a terrible idea. Let us hope the lady says no.”
“Ladies of good manners do not refuse a reasonable proposal from a suitor they have entertained.”
Susanna laughed. “Then I suppose I have atrocious manners.”
“You have not refused an offer of marriage.”
“I have refused several. Is that so impossible to believe?” She drew herself up.
Why did his surprise offend her so deeply?
“How unthinkable that a spinster has chosen to be unmarried,” she said.
“I did not say it was unthinkable,” he retorted.
“No, you said I know nothing about courtship or marriage, but you know nothing of me. It is my experience and knowledge of both that has kept me unmarried. I have seen too many unhappy unions. I will not be trapped in the same. Thanks to my aunt I do not need to marry for convenience or security. So I will only marry for love.”
The words had flowed too swiftly to be stopped. As if a dam had broken inside of her and the thoughts and emotions of the last months flooded out. She let out a long breath and shook her head.
“I suppose I am still upset about our last conversation,” she said.
“So it seems.” He shrugged. “I understand, for I have not forgiven you.”
“I never sought your forgiveness.”
“I am aware,” he said dryly.
It was all too ridiculous. Susanna giggled.
His lips twitched, an almost smile, before he frowned. “This is no laughing matter,” he said.
His seriousness made a new giggle rise up. She schooled herself and allowed only a grin. “I disagree. In my experience, laughing can be the best response to discomfort.”
“I fear we will never agree.”
“And there you are wrong. For I agree that we do not agree.”
The corner of his mouth rose, and her grin widened. He shook his head, but his smile grew. It was as lopsided and as boyish as she remembered. Rosie was in there somewhere.
Drawing out a genuine smile from Ambrose Hartley was more delicious than a strawberry ice.