Page 37 of A Convenient Fiction

She jerked back from him with a start, nearly conking her head against the tree trunk. “I beg your pardon!”

Mr. Archer stared down at her. He appeared as stunned as she felt. Indeed, to judge from his slack-jawed look of astonishment, one might think she’d transformed into some variety of mythical creature at the merest touch of his lips. A mermaid, perhaps.

Or a two-headed monster.

It was a lowering thought.

His hand fell from the tree. “Miss Hayes—” He broke off. “Laura—”

“Don’t,” she warned him. “Don’t dare presume some greater intimacy—”

“Forgive me.” He took a step back from her. “I don’t know what I was thinking.” An incredulous laugh. “Nothing, apparently. I think I must have run mad.”

More lowering still.

Laura was glad of the set down, however unintentional. She’d rather be angry and insulted than hurt—or tempted. “Do you often go about kissing ladies in such a hurly-burly fashion?”

“Never.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “Truly, Miss Hayes. I’m sorry for having offended you. I daresay it was all of this talk of boldness and taking risks. I lost my head for a moment. It won’t happen again.”

His apology should have mollified her. He meant it—anyone could see that. And she did believe him. He wouldn’t kiss her again.

She should have been relieved. Instead, she felt vaguely disappointed.

Brief though it was, Mr. Archer’s kiss had been nothing like George’s. Her heart was still thumping rapidly from the wonder of it. So soft and tender—and so very surprising to them both.

“Why did you do it?” Her voice was almost a whisper. “Is it because I’m in reduced circumstances? Because I haven’t a father or a brother to defend me from—”

“No.” His denial was quick and fierce. “It has nothing to do with your station in life. My God. If you only knew—”

“Then why?”

“Because…there’s something between us. Some thread of connection. I feel it every time I look at you.”

“I feel it, too,” she admitted.

He gave her a tormented look. “Do you?”

She nodded. There was no point in denying it. “I wish I didn’t feel it.”

“I wish the same. But now we’ve acknowledged it…perhaps we’ve robbed it of its power. We can move on. Forget any of this ever happened.”

“Can you forget?” she asked.

Mr. Archer settled his hat back on his head. “I’m sure as hell going to try.”

Over the next three days, Laura saw Mr. Archer often, but never again did she confide in him as she had on the way to the Roman ruin. And never again did he attempt to kiss her. He scarcely looked at her, truth be told. All of his energies were directed toward Henrietta—walking with her, talking with her, and generally making himself agreeable.

When they went to the village shops, Mr. Archer sat next to Henrietta in the barouche. When she played the pianoforte in the Edgington Park music room, he was at her side, turning the pages of her music. And when they strolled in the Edgington Park rose garden, he bent his head to Henrietta’s, sharing private words with her that provoked her blushes and laughter.

Laura wasn’t jealous. How could she be? She had no claim on Mr. Archer, and wasn’t likely to ever have one. She had no fortune to lure him. Nothing but her poor self and whatever meager attraction he felt toward her.

Not that it really mattered.

She had too much on her mind to care what Mr. Archer was up to with Henrietta.

Even so…after three days in company with him, his single-minded attention to her friend began to grate. How changeable he was! How utterly adept at playing the doting suitor. Was there nothing real about the man? Nothing meaningful or true?

He seemed a sinister chameleon, capable of changing his personality to suit his company. There was nothing of the honest gruffness she’d experienced in him when he’d hauled her out of the pond, nor of the gentleness he’d shown her when he’d dried her tears. He cast her no brooding glances, and showed no signs of the frustration he’d exhibited when he’d backed away from her under the yew tree. Indeed, there appeared to be nothing authentic about Alex Archer at all.