Chapter Eleven
He was a man and his betrothed was a beautiful woman.
Of course, he would notice the little bow at the front of her dress.
It was perfectly normal to spend an inordinate amount of time obsessing over whether it was merely decoration or whether if he tugged at it, the whole bodice would loosen.
He could almost feel the fabric under his fingertips, could sense the warmth of her skin against the back of his hand.
The longing was almost an ache, his gaze a wilful thing that had taken on its own volition and was no longer listening to his mind, which screamed at him to think of something else, anything else.
It was more than mildly annoying that she didn’t appear to be as affected by his presence as he was by hers.
While he was practically vibrating with the urge to reach out and touch her, she was utterly serene, barely even glancing in his direction.
Maybe his behaviour from their drive had put her off him.
He’d been a complete bore in the park, and he should apologise, but it wasn’t in his nature to point out or remind people of times when he wasn’t at his best. Even though driving around the park wasn’t something he enjoyed, he normally had the presence of mind to at least make pleasant conversation with his companion.
He enjoyed a flirtatious afternoon as much as the next man, but his heart hadn’t been in it today.
Ever since they’d received Mr Hornel’s letter, the mystery of Sebastian’s death had been going round in his mind; he couldn’t get it out of his head that his brother may have needed him and he had not been there.
Not that Sebastian had asked for his help or reached out to him in the years that he had been abroad, but that didn’t seem to make it any better.
For a couple of days, he’d found it difficult to think of anything else.
That was until he’d picked up Sophia for that ride and been confronted with her dress.
It was humbling to realise he was shallow enough to be distracted by a pale pink bow and he’d spent rather a lot of time berating himself for being preoccupied by something he couldn’t have.
They stepped through into his favourite section of the garden and he realised that, even now, when he’d sworn to himself that he would stop looking at it, he was back to searching out the bow.
He was a straw-brained nitwit. The object of his fascination was spinning slowly, eyes wide as she took in the arrangement of the walled garden, and something in his chest warmed at the evident delight on her face.
For a woman of the Ton, she was surprisingly unguarded in her expressions.
He never got the sense that she was trying to pretend to be anything other than who she was.
There was something innocently refreshing about that.
Right now, he could read exactly what she was thinking from the mix of surprise and awe.
He could understand that too. The place gave the impression that the two of them had stepped into a wilderness.
It contrasted so completely with the formal section they had just walked through and London in general, that it was as if they had wandered into a foreign land just by taking several steps.
It was one of Christopher’s favourite places.
He often found himself out here when being in the house around relatively newly married couples became too much.
Of course, he’d adamantly deny having a favourite garden to any of his fashionable friends.
He was known for being at home at the card table or enjoying an evening of getting foxed with other young men.
Not one of those knew he was the sort of man who found pleasure in watching the way the spring petals bobbed in a gentle breeze.
They continued walking, not speaking, Sophia seeming content to stay silent and take in her surroundings and he because he was fixating on that damned bow again.
A shower of pink-tinted blossom fell on them as they walked under a crab apple tree. Sophia laughed, plucking one that had landed on her chest and placing it in her upturned palm. ‘How soft and delicate,’ she murmured, her thumb lightly brushing over the petal.
Christopher couldn’t answer. Something hot and tight was constricting his lungs.
It could not be because of the long slope of her neck, or the tiny black curls that were too short to be contained under her bonnet and curled about her neck.
He clasped his hands behind his back, fighting the urge to twirl one around his finger, wondering what the hell was wrong with him.
Touching this woman was the worst possible idea in the history of awful ideas, and he’d had some dire ones in the past. There’d been that joke he’d played on Fitzwilliam, one of his friends at Eton, which had crumbled halfway through, making him look mean instead of playful.
That one sometimes kept him awake at night, even though everyone had eventually found the funny side and still ragged him about it years later.
It had somehow hardened his reputation as the madcap one and not, as he’d feared, the grotesquely mean one.
Nonetheless, he regretted it and still wished he could take it back so he wasn’t reminded of it at the end of a bad day.
But giving into his desire now would be far, far worse.
If he seduced her, if they developed real feelings for one another, it would only end in pain.
He was not going to give up on his dream for travel and he could hardly do that with a wife and children.
Because that was where touching her would lead.
If she gave him any indication that she would welcome the brush of his fingers against her skin, he would be lost. There would be no coming back from it.
The petal fluttered out of her palm, spinning away from them. She watched its progress before turning to look up at him. Her smile grew larger and he momentarily forgot how to breathe.
‘Your hair,’ she giggled, obviously not affected by his presence in any way.
His internal wrangling was for nought. Before he could stop her, she was reaching up and plucking the petals from the top of his head, her barely there touch sending shivers down his spine.
It took all his willpower not to lean into her.
She held up her hand, showing him her collection.
His fingers flexed behind his back, but he held still, reminding himself of all the reasons he would not give in to temptation.
Because, even if there were no reasons not to from his side, she was giving no sign that she wanted him to trace his fingers along the length of her jaw, and he did not want to repel her by being overfamiliar.
Despite the indecent thoughts racing through his mind, he was a gentleman, and he would act it.
He forced his lips into an approximation of a smile, trying desperately to hide the weird feelings he was experiencing.
As she gazed up at him, her smile slowly faded away, suggesting he wasn’t doing a good job of looking normal. Damnation.
‘Should we…?’
‘Are you…?’
She laughed. ‘I do apologise. What were you about to say?’
Really, he should let her go first, but as he was fairly sure she had been about to ask him whether everything was all right, he wasn’t going to.
He didn’t know how to explain the swirling emotions going on inside him right now and he certainly did not want to dwell on them or discuss them with the woman who was causing them.
‘I intended to return to our list. So far, we have a garden party and pall-mall, both of which will happen at the same time. It is not extensive and neither of those touch on the real matter at hand.’
‘We could try another ride in the park,’ she suggested. ‘No, I can see from your pursed lips that one is not for you.’
‘I thought only old ladies pursed their lips.’
‘In that case you are doing a good impression of one.’ Her teasing smile was delightfully wicked. ‘Answer the question.’
‘I do not believe you asked one.’ She rolled her eyes.
‘But no, I would prefer not to do another ride in the park. I find the pastime rather tedious.’ Her shoulders drooped and she turned away from him but not before he saw the light in her eyes dim and he realised he had inadvertently offended her.
She’d already told him she thought she was boring, and his words had obviously confirmed that thought.
His heart squeezed looking at the sight of her so deflated.
If he could paint, she would be the very picture of sadness. ‘I have said the wrong thing.’
One shoulder raised. ‘It is fine.’
There was no lightness in her voice, just quiet acceptance and he had a surge of anger at whoever had made her feel that way. ‘I was not apologising.’
She spun round, her mouth slightly agape, a fire sparking in her eyes.
Good. He would rather she was annoyed with him than feeling sorry for herself.
If there was one thing he could achieve before this betrothal ended, then it was changing this incorrect perception of herself.
Perhaps she was more reserved than her sisters, but that was not a bad thing.
Quiet did not mean dull. The first thing was to explain what he meant when he said he did not enjoy the ride in the park, because he could see that she would think he meant with her, after he had been so uncommunicative this morning.
‘It is nothing to do with the riding in the carriage. I would quite happily take you for a ride about town or the country. It’s that driving in the park means I am stared at a lot, and I do not find it at all pleasant.
’ She blinked up at him as if he had spoken a different language.
What he’d said was not all that radical, surely. ‘Do you not agree?’