Page 51 of A Convenient Fiction

She bent to collect her blanket. Her hands were trembling. “What has that to do with anything?”

“It may have given you a false expectation—”

“You must think me a very green girl.” She gave the blanket a brisk shake before thrusting it into her basket. “That wasn’t my first kiss, you know.”

His frown deepened. It was very nearly a scowl. “Nor mine.”

“Well, there we are.” She looped her basket over her arm. “In any event, I’d hardly call it a kiss. It lasted all of two seconds. Scarcely worth remembering.”

“Is that so?”

Her stomach was trembling, as out of control as her hands. She was baiting a wolf, and she knew it. It was childish and stupid. But part of her wanted to hurt him, just as he’d hurt her. “I consider it no more memorable than a buss on the cheek from an aged uncle. Not half as memorable as the kiss I shared with George.”

His mouth curled into a slow, sardonic smile. “Remind me to teach you not to overplay your hand.”

She gave him an uncertain look.

“George?” His smile broadened. “Really, Laura?”

“He did kiss me.”

“And you slapped him across the face. ‘With all of your strength,’ isn’t that what you told me?”

It was her turn to frown. “You’re very smug.”

“A lady like you isn’t likely to fancy a fellow like George Wright.”

“What do you know of ladies like me?”

“Enough to recognize that you’d never lose your heart to a wastrel.”

“Is he a wastrel?” She walked past him. “When I was a girl, he seemed a perfect gentleman. I thought myself in love with him. Had he proposed marriage, I would have accepted him without hesitation.”

“When you were a girl,” Alex repeated. “In your salad days.”

She shot him a glare over her shoulder. “Oh, do go away! I don’t know why you came here if you’re only going to tease and devil me.”

“I’m not entirely certain myself.” He followed after her. His horse was tethered ahead.

“You’d do better to avoid me completely,” she said. “Indeed, I wish you would.”

His smile faded. “Do you mean that?”

She turned back to him. There was nothing sardonic about his expression now. If she was disposed to girlish daydreams, she might almost fancy that he cared for her. “I don’t know. Meeting as we did…it’s given us a false sense of familiarity. But we aren’t friends, are we? We aren’t really anything to each other at all.”

“I should like to be a friend to you,” he said.

Her gaze briefly fell from his. It took an effort to keep her countenance. “I don’t think we can be friends.”

His voice lowered to match hers. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not, if it’s true? Friends should be honest with each other. They should show each other who they really are. How is such a thing even possible with a man like you?”

“A man like me.” His large frame loomed over her, as motionless as if her words had turned him to stone. “And just what sort of man is that?”

“A chameleon,” she replied without hesitation. “You change yourself to suit your company. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. One moment you’re one way, the next another. As if you’re a completely different man. I can’t even be certain that half of the things you say aren’t elaborate fictions created to aid your deception.”

“You think I’ve lied to you?”