Page 13 of The Matrimonial Advertisement

Had Miss Reynolds’s parents been any kinder? Any more affectionate? Justin hadn’t the slightest idea. She’d never written a word about her mother and father, or any of her other relations for that matter. He’d not even known she had a brother until she mentioned him during their conversation at the King’s Arms. She’d been maddeningly opaque. Though he could hardly blame her. His own letters had been no more forthcoming.

He released her hand so he could jump from the end of the cliff path onto the beach. Miss Reynolds looked down at him from where she stood. The wind had blown some of her hair loose from beneath her bonnet. She brushed it from her face with her fingers.

He stepped toward her with upraised arms. “If you’ll allow me.”

She nodded her permission and he took hold of her waist, swinging her lightly to the ground. She weighed no more than a feather, the crown of her bonnet scarcely reaching his shoulder, but there was no mistaking her for anything other than what she was—a warm, softly rounded woman.

A woman wearing far too many blasted clothes.

Still, Justin thought, it could be worse. Many women he’d seen of late had skirts that were at least ten feet in circumference. Enormous flounced skirts supported by wire hoops prone to flip upward in a high wind. Miss Reynolds’s own skirts were formidable, but he could detect no cagelike contraption beneath them. Indeed, the only bit of armor she seemed to be wearing was in the guise of a tightly cinched whalebone corset, the stiffness of which he could feel beneath his fingers.

“Are you sorry we didn’t bring Boothroyd and your maid?” he asked, still holding her.

Her already flushed cheeks turned a deeper shade of rose. “No.”

“Nor am I.” Justin flexed his fingers on her waist and then reluctantly let her go. He clasped his hands behind his back so he wouldn’t be tempted to reach out to her again. “Shall we?”

She nodded and, without another word, they began to walk, side by side, along the dry sand.

They strolled in silence for several minutes. There was nothing but the sound of the seagulls and the tumultuous waves. The wind was high and the sea was rougher than usual. It crashed against the rocks with a resounding roar. More than once, he saw Miss Reynolds stare out at it, a strange expression on her face. “Are you fond of the seaside?” he asked.

“I’ve never been until now.”

He gave her a sharp look. “You’ve never seen the sea?”

She shook her head. “Not until the accommodation coach crossed a high hill on the way to King’s Abbot. I looked out the window and…there it was.”

Justin couldn’t imagine it. He’d been born on the coast and had spent the better part of his youth clambering along the cliffs and swimming in the open sea. The beach outside of Abbot’s Holcombe had been his safe haven; the place he fled to whenever life with the Brays became intolerable. “How does it strike you?” he asked her, genuinely curious.

“Vast,” she said. “Limitless. It makes me feel very small.”

She resumed looking down the narrow strip of beach as they walked on in silence, staring steadily first up at the cliffs and then down the long, desolate coastline. Justin wondered what it was that captivated her attention to such a degree. There was nothing but stark, isolated rock and empty stretches of sand. He tried to imagine it through her eyes, but it was a fruitless exercise. He was far too cynical and, in the presence of such a fine lady, painfully conscious of his home’s many shortcomings.

He’d felt much the same when he’d first seen her inside the Abbey. It was to be her home if they married, possibly for the rest of her life. Yet Queen Victoria herself could not have looked more out of place than Helena Reynolds had, sitting so primly on his shabby library sofa.

“It’s not a patch on London, is it?” he asked.

“Isn’t it?” She continued to gaze fixedly up at the cliffs.

He thrust his hands into the pockets of his trousers as he lagged a short distance behind her. “There’s no comparison. London is vibrant. Full of energy and industry.”

“I suppose.”

“And then there are the amusements. Shopping on Bond Street. Riding in Hyde Park. Visiting the Zoological Gardens. Whatever one is in the mood for is only a hansom cab’s drive away.”

“Yes, but—” She glanced back at him. “For those who don’t fancy such entertainments, London is rather wasted, don’t you think?”

“Are we speaking in hypotheticals?” he asked. “Or are we speaking of you?”

She didn’t answer.

He lengthened his stride so he was once again walking at her side. “I refuse to believe there isn’t something in London you’ll regret having given up. A bookstore, perhaps, or a confectioner’s shop where you buy your favorite sweets.”

“I don’t care for sweets.”

“Your favorite books, then. You do like books, I presume.” He saw her lip curve upward a fraction. “There are no bookstores in King’s Abbot. Nor libraries, either. If one wants to read the newest novels, one must purchase them in Abbot’s Holcombe. And since we’ve both agreed to loathe the place…”

“You have books in your library. I’ll simply read those.”