Page 37 of The Pleasure in Persuasion

Lily’s low voice cut into his thoughts. “Were you—are you—in love with her?”

The question surprised him, and his denial was instant. “No. I didn’t love her,” he said. “I loved that she wanted me, that she chose me, even though I am—” He broke off, the words catching in his throat, words he’d thought often but never voiced aloud.

“Even though you are what?” Lily prodded gently. And maybe it was her quiet voice, or her understanding tone, or simply the fact that she was Lily and he was mad about her, but whatever the reason, he found himself sharing with her more than he’d ever shared with anyone.

“Has Penelope ever told you about our brother George?” he asked, sitting back in the bench.

She blinked, clearly caught off guard by the unexpected question. “He...died several years ago. During the war.”

Frederick nodded, the ache of loss swelling in his chest as it did every time he thought of his brother and those awful months after the death notice came, telling them George was never coming home.

“He was an artist—a painter—and his talent was enormous, though George would never say so, of course.” Frederick smiled. “He was far too modest for that, but we all knew he was a genius, and that he would do great things with his art. He had so many plans, places to go, scenes he wished to paint. He had so much—” He swallowed, his throat aching. “He had so much to offer the world, and he’s gone. And I’m still here.”

It should have been me.

The words whispered through his mind, words he’d thought before and knew he shouldn’t. George wouldn’t want him to think that way.

But he couldn’t help that it was the truth.

“I’m glad,” Lily said softly, drawing Frederick’s gaze. “I hate that your brother is gone, but I’m glad you’re here, and so are Penelope and my grandmother and Blythe.” She smiled. “You know how much that cow fancies you.”

A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips, but he couldn’t quite find the words to agree with her. He wasn’t sure he did.

“You have a lot to offer this world, too, Frederick,” she went on, serious once again. “You are kind and warm and you make people smile. Even surly people like me.”

A soft chuckle escaped him. “You’re not surly. You’re...occasionally prickly.”

“I’m a churlish beast and you know it,” she shot back with a laugh. “But even though I was beastly to you that day we first met, you still helped me with Blythe, and then with Mr. Carstairs. Because you’re a kind man.”

She laid a hand on his forearm, and the simple touch eased his tension nearly as much as her words.

“We all make mistakes, Frederick. But that doesn’t mean you’re a bad person, or that you’re unworthy of this life. You’re a good man, and you have as much right to be here as any of us.”

Her unwavering, earnest gaze told him she believed every word of it, and although Frederick had only known Lily for a handful of days, her opinion had come to mean something to him. Maybe even everything.

“Thank you,” he said gruffly, his chest tight with emotion.

She was still grasping his forearm, the warmth of her touch seeping through his sleeve, and he covered her hand with his, intending to emphasize his gratitude.

The moment he touched her soft, bare skin, however, awareness sparked to life, humming along his spine.

She swallowed, her gaze flicking to his mouth, and he was certain she had felt the same jolt of attraction he had.

Gently, he clasped her fingers with his own then raised her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. Lily watched him, as still as the night, her eyes glimmering with awakened desire.

He brushed his lips across her knuckles again then turned her hand palm up and bent his head, intending to kiss her there, too.

“Don’t.”

The word froze him, and he lifted his head to look at her just as she slipped her hand from his grasp.

“My hands are not pretty,” she said, her voice low, her fingers fidgeting. “They used to be, but now they are callused and ugly and I…” Her gaze fell to her lap. “I am embarrassed of them. I am embarrassed for you to touch them.”

Avoiding Frederick’s gaze, Lily stared at her callused worker’s hands, her cheeks flushed hot with embarrassment and vulnerability—and a healthy dose of irritation. Irritation with herself, and with the dratted insecurity that had slithered into the moment and sunk its teeth in deep.

She was proud of the work she did, and the help she gave her grandmother. She liked the self-sufficient person she’d become, and the confidence she’d earned by learning to rely on herself instead of her family or a husband.

Still, no matter how ideal, every situation had its drawbacks, and Lily’s situation had given her callused hands, bruised knees and a blister on her left foot that could not seem to heal.