Chapter Sixteen
“It was all Miss Perkins, I assure you,” Mr. Malcolm Brown said for what felt, to her, like the hundredth time since that afternoon.
As he said the words, he grinned, showing himself to be more handsome—no, beautiful—than ever. His smile, in this context, was almost rakish, and it did dangerous things to that place between Scarlett’s thighs.
Since she landed the balloon, Malcolm had been telling anyone who would listen that it was her quick thinking that had saved them.
“If it weren’t for Miss Perkins,” Malcolm said now, “I’d be halfway to France, I’m sure.”
He was recounting the tale to Mr. Larchman and one of the local landowners, a Mr. Dermott, who had been frequently present for these evening meals. Neither man had witnessed the kerfuffle today.
“Rather impressive action from a lady,” Mr. Dermott said. “You would not expect it.”
“It really wasn’t anything unusual,” Scarlett said, not particularly caring for Mr. Dermott’s characterization, but unable to get worked up about the opinions of the stuffy old creature that sat across from her.
Anyway, she had said this exact phrase many times since the incident occurred. It was how she felt. She wasn’t afraid of heights, so it hardly made sense that she would panic in such a circumstance.
What had happened on the ground, apparently, had been that the little dogs that belonged to Malcolm’s nieces and nephew had gotten loose.
Their leads had tangled in the legs of one of the balloon men.
When he had let go of the rope, it had so surprised one of the other men, that he had let go too—and then the third had been forced to let go as well, because he was afraid the balloon would tip them out of the basket given how perilously it was tilting from the unevenness of the ballast.
However, what had been most shocking to Scarlett hadn’t been nearly floating away in a hot-air balloon.
After all, so many shocking things had happened to her since she had set foot on Parkhorne land that a hot-air balloon mishap had some competition.
But, no, in this instance, what shocked her most was that the diffident and stiff Malcolm Brown seemed to find her own presence of mind so praiseworthy—and his own lack of action rather …
amusing. She did not know many men who would be content being bested by a woman in such circumstances.
But Malcolm Brown did not seem to mind in the slightest. She would not have announced that it was her who had pulled the vent on the balloon and landed the contraption.
But when they landed, he had proclaimed the truth almost immediately with a laugh.
Which was strange because he wasn’t a man who seemed to laugh easily.
Now, they were at dinner and seated next to one another again. And it felt good—as it had all day—to answer questions about their adventure. Together.
“Miss Perkins is only being modest,” Malcolm said, the rich timbre of his voice seeming to vibrate into her, despite the fact that they were sitting at least a foot apart.
“It really took great presence of mind. I can assure you fellows that when that basket lurches two hundred feet in the air, it is not a small thing to keep your wits.”
“It is very impressive, Miss Perkins,” Mr. Larchman said. “I should like to have you near me the next time I find myself in a crisis.”
“Yes,” Malcolm said, his eyes twinkling. “It seems that Miss Perkins is rather good in a crisis.”
She felt a keen drop of pleasure go through her at the clear innuendo of his words. Because hadn’t what they had shared before today—twice—been just that.
Before long, the older men fell into conversation about something regarding crop rotation, and it felt—despite dining at a table full of people—that Scarlett was once more alone with Mr. Malcolm Brown.
Since their first night, they had dined together again, but they had said very little to one another. On these occasions, she had schooled herself not to glance at him.
Now, however, when she lifted her gaze to his, he looked at her with a distinct openness. She knew they wouldn’t sit in silence. After what had happened today, that was no longer possible.
“I realize, Miss Perkins, that I have an apology to make,” he said, his voice graver but still warm.
She wanted to lean into it, as one did toward the sun on a beautiful summer day or a fireplace in the dead of winter.
“Although, perhaps, it is more accurate to say that where you are concerned, I have more than one apology to make.”
She flashed him a look of caution. He couldn’t say anything too revealing here, of all places.
“You needn’t worry about me debasing myself too far,” he said, as if he caught her meaning. “I certainly should apologize for how I left you to helm that errant balloon today.”
She shook her head. “It would have occurred to you sooner rather than later that you needed to pull the vent.”
“Maybe. But we may have been at the tree line by then. But that’s not the apology that preys on my mind. I know that, in the affair of the balloon, you did not need me to rescue you.”
“Oh,” she said. “I see.”
If he wasn’t going to apologize for either of their, er, encounters, and he wasn’t going to apologize for the balloon, she had no idea what he would apologize for.
“Our first night when we dined together, I said something clumsy.”
She flushed, horribly and suddenly. She did not need to see her own face to know she was characteristically scarlet. Of course, she knew what he referred to now.
She knew what he must think of her. And it pained her because she thought so differently of him.
Clearly, he did find her somewhat comely, but in a sort of base way that was not specific to her.
That was general to what he might feel toward any tolerable lady.
He thought her gluttonous. Too plump. As must most people who looked on her.
And she didn’t want to be reminded that he, too, saw her this way.
“Really, Mr. Brown, there is no need to apologize—”
“No, I must. I am sorry to recall the memory of my coarse behavior. For my own sake—and yours,” he said.
“I was so grateful to you for appreciating the food at that first dinner. It had been the product of many months’ work.
And I, uh”—he blushed here—“enjoyed seeing you enjoy it. I intended to thank you for that. But I misspoke. I gave offense and worse, perhaps, I gave an inaccurate impression of my thoughts and feelings on … the matter.”
She wasn’t sure if she had ever heard him say so many words together at once.
And the way he had looked at her at this moment—well, it suggested that he didn’t see her pleasure in food as a deplorable gluttony at all.
“I will remember you eating that strawberry,” he added, in a low, ardent voice, “for the rest of my life.”
If she had been scarlet before, now she must be a veritable lobster.
And now she was sure that she would remember him saying these words for the rest of her life.
Scarlett knew they could never again do what they had done in that closet.
Not to mention her bedchamber on her first night.
Despite his kindness now, he could not want it—and it would be utterly inappropriate.
She could see how ill-matched they were, even if by some miracle he did grow fond of her.
Neither, after all, had any money. She had no idea, for instance, if he could even furnish a respectable establishment.
And his work was here, in the country, and she had lived her whole life in London.
“You are forgiven, of course,” she said quietly. “And I am sorry if I horrified you with my appetite. I wouldn’t blame you. Ladies are only supposed to eat small portions.”
His eyebrows rose into his hairline. “Perhaps in London,” he said. “But here, at Parkhorne, I hope you will not feel the need to abide by such rules. Not when it gives me such pleasure to watch you enjoy the fruits of my labor.”
“Thank you,” she said, a strange lump rising in her throat.
It was one of the kindest things that anyone had ever said to her, especially someone who wasn’t Tilly or Vera or her father.
“And I should add,” he continued. “You said something today, in the balloon, before our misadventure”—he gave a little wry smile—“that I must also correct. You said that you knew I must be ashamed of something that does not shame me at all. It is quite to the contrary.”
He could not say more at the table, she knew. He probably already risked too much.
But she was almost certain he referred to her comment right before the balloon lurched, the words she hadn’t meant to say, that she was sure he was ashamed of having been so intimate with her.
He was refuting it.
She did not know what to make of it. Could he really be suggesting that he found her handsome? She wasn’t sure. It seemed too implausible to be believed.
But she appreciated the effort, whatever it was, all the same. “I know relations between us, Mr. Brown,” she said, “have gotten off to an … unusual start. But I do wish we could regard each other as friends.”
He smiled. It was a friendly smile. Or could, at least, by an objective third party, be interpreted as such.
Of course, to her, the smile looked like a sinful invitation to want.
Her feelings for this man could never be purely friendly, but he didn’t need to know that.
And it would be pleasant to be on warmer terms with him, especially since there were still twenty days left of this infernal house party.
“That sounds lovely, Miss Perkins.”
God, why she did have to flush hot at the sound of his voice. It wasn’t fair. She might be able to resist his looks—some men were very good-looking, after all—but none had ever made her feel so much desire just from the sound of their voice alone.
They spent the rest of the dinner in pleasant conversation.
She continued to ask him questions about the different dishes before them, which he answered easily.
He then, in turn, began to ask her questions about her life in London, and whether she enjoyed living there and how she spent her time.
His questions therein were so careful, so considerate, that she had to stop herself from glowing too obviously under his attention.
When she informed him that she frequented the public lectures put on by the Royal Society of London, he exclaimed that she was mechanically minded.
And she confessed that while she had often heard that women and machinery did not mix, she had never found it particularly intimidating—and that, in fact, she found engines of all types quite intriguing.
He said he followed the discoveries of the Royal Society in the papers and that it was one of the few things about London that had tempted him to visit.
It had been a very long time since she had enjoyed speaking to any man as much.
In fact, if she were honest with herself, that had been the case since their first dinner together, if one ignored the misunderstanding he had just apologized for.
She could hardly pay attention to another soul at the table. And truthfully, she didn’t. She could spare no consideration—to her shame—for how Tilly made out with George on the other end.
And it was not lost on her that when dessert arrived, Mr. Malcolm Brown served her an indecently large piece of cake.
She ate it all.
And if she was not mistaken, and despite their resolution to be friends, he watched her with eyes hungry for something more than apple cake.