Page 33 of A Modest Independence

“That’s certainly one way of putting it.”

“Forgive me. I spoke too boldly. I beg your pardon if I’ve offended you.”

The rain beat a steady rhythm against the velvet-curtained windows. Jenny contemplated accepting Tom’s apology, if for no other reason than to put this incident behind them. They needed to be comfortable in each other’s company. Awkwardness and embarrassment during a journey of this length would be unbearable. Far better to brush off his bewildering proposal and set her mind to the prospect of her forthcoming adventures.

But a liaison with Tom would be an adventure, too.

“You haven’t offended me,” she said. “Quite the opposite. I find myself intrigued.”

Tom’s gaze found hers. “Do you?”

“Yes, but…I’m not entirely certain what you mean by companionship. Something more than friendship, I gather. But how much more? And in what form?”

He cleared his throat. “In general terms? Closeness, I suppose. Familiarity. Even tenderness, if we’re so inclined.”

“You’re speaking of romance.”

“If you like.”

Doubt infiltrated her thoughts—and her voice. She shook her head. “We scarcely know each other.”

“At this moment, you know more about me than almost anyone on earth.”

She gave him a startled look. “Do you mean because I know about Mrs. Culpepper? Oh, but surely—”

“You know me,” he said. “And we know each other. Better than most courting couples, I’d wager.”

Her pulse accelerated, even as her stomach clenched. Was there ever such an unsettling feeling? It was equal parts fear and breathless anticipation. “Now you’re speaking of courtship.”

“Must we put a label on it? Isn’t it enough to say that we’re fond of each other?”

“I am fond of you. Enormously fond, as I believe you’re well aware.”

A slow smile spread over Tom’s face. “And I’m fond of you. Enormously fond. As for the rest of it…we have plenty of time. An abundance of it. Hours until we reach Marseilles and then six days at least on steamer ships to Malta and Alexandria. After that…”

“However long it takes to journey to Calcutta. Another three or four weeks, I think, depending on the trains and the weather at sea.”

“Come. We can do better than that sad estimate.” He rose and crossed the short distance to sink down at her side. She had only a fraction of a second to snatch away her hat before he crushed it beneath him. “Where’s your Bradshaw’s?”

She stared at him, her cheeks flushed with color.

“Jenny?”

“It’s in my reticule.”

“Fetch it, will you? We can go over our route.”

She retrieved the little cloth bag from its place at her feet, opened the drawstring mouth, and withdrew her battered travel guide. Each of her movements caused another part of her to brush against him, from the curve of her arm to the swell of her skirts. It was maddeningly intimate—and surely as disconcerting for Tom as it was for her. Indeed, he seemed to have stopped breathing altogether.

“Let me see,” she murmured, flipping through the dog-eared pages. “Ah. Here it is.” She angled the book for him, her finger pointing to a miniscule line of print. “Calcutta.”

Tom leaned closer, drawing his head near to hers as they pored over the train schedule. “And here we are.” He set his own gloved finger to a point on the accompanying map.

“We have thousands of miles to go yet,” she said. “Weeks and weeks of travel.”

“Every one of them taking us farther away from our lives in England.”

Jenny detected an odd note in his voice. “Are you having second thoughts?”