Page 32 of Miss Devon’s Choice

“I don’t have my gloves,” she said, pulling her arm away, absolutely mortified. “And my bonnet—” She thrust the books out to him. “Please, hold these.”

He took both books and tucked them beneath his arm, watching her. With amusement. He was actually smiling at her. It was the most pleasant expression she’d seen on his face so far, and here she’d caused it by being forgetful.

Rebecca shook her head, trying to tie her bonnet beneath her chin while studying the expression on his face. The scar across his mouth did little to detract from the charm of his smile. Nor did the old scars peppered across his skin. His lips were full, and curved upwards, they made the straight lines of his jaw and cheekbones stand out, appearing more sculpted. The man certainly wasn’t attractive in the traditional sense, but Rebecca found she liked the way he looked.

His dark eyes lightened, just a touch, while he watched her fumble with the ribbons. If only she had a mirror! She finally tied the bow without managing to choke herself, then held her hands out for the books again.

He handed them back, then pointed to her chin. “Forgive me, Miss Devon, but your ribbons. One side is much, much longer than the other. Is that acceptable?”

“No.” She huffed and started to hand him the books again but stopped when he raised both hands toward her.

“May I? It would be more efficient.”

Her breath hitched in her chest, but she nodded. It wasn’t proper. Helping a lady with any aspect of her clothing, even if it was only gloves or bonnet, was an exceptionally intimate thing to do. At least by society’s view.

But they were late. And besides, allowing him to do so might assist her in her goal to fall in love with him. How could it not? It was a kind gesture, and—

All thought immediately ceased when she felt his fingertips beneath her chin, upon her neck, barely brushing her skin as he untied the bow. His hands, though larger than hers, and rougher, managed the bow in a far less fumbling manner than she had. Everywhere his fingers brushed, her skin tingled. The strange sensation traveled down her neck, across her shoulders, into her arms, making her head feel lighter.

“Better,” he announced, his voice soft. They stood astoundingly close, she realized. Facing each other. She couldn’t think of when she’d been so near a man before. Not even in dancing. She wasn’t allowed to waltz yet, after all.

His hand lingered near her chin, his fingertips no longer against her skin, though she could feel the heat from his hand. If she tilted her head, her cheek could rest in his palm. If she stepped forward, she could lay her head upon his shoulder. She raised her eyes to his, overcome by those strange thoughts, and uncertain, yet terribly tempted to act upon them.

This couldn’t be right. She barely knew him. Yet the attraction was there.

His eyes darkened, his breath hitched, and he leaned the slightest bit forward. Not enough. Not as much as she wanted him to.

Then he blinked and looked away, the spell broken, the electric quality to the air settling instead in her chest.

“We had better be on our way.” He stepped forward, not offering his arm this time. She hurried forward to catch him. Though she was taller than most of the women of her acquaintance, he was taller than any man she knew, and his stride longer. Rebecca had to practically kick up her skirts to keep pace with him. If his sudden agitation was any indication of his feelings, Christian Hundley was fully aware of something buzzing between them. And uncomfortable with it.

Optimism took full hold on her imagination. Perhaps, if things went well, she wouldn’t be the only one to fall in love.

Chapter Twelve

The entire party had turned out of doors for the picnic. Everyone was busily speaking of their morning. Christian and Rebecca’s late arrival barely elicited notice. He walked with her directly to her cousin, Lady Annesbury.

“Oh good, you found her,” the countess said, quietly enough that no additional attention was attracted. “Rebecca, Cook made your favorite tarts.”

“If you will excuse me, ladies,” Christian heard himself saying. He bowed and walked away, as if to speak to the marquess who was sitting in a chair beneath the shade of a chestnut tree. Truly, he just needed to get away from Rebecca, and quickly.

The younger people had spread a blanket to eat, but there was a table and chairs set up nearly as properly as they would have been in the dining room. The married people sat there, eating and filling the air with their chatter. Christian had nothing to say to anyone at the table, but he took an empty chair anyway.

A footman appeared at his side with a plate, laying it before him with a bow. Christian started to fill it automatically, though eating was the farthest thing from his mind.

He’d gone in search of Rebecca as a show of goodwill. He’d been with the other gentlemen when he made the offer. They’d all just changed after their fishing excursion when Lady Annesbury found them and mentioned not knowing where her cousin had gone. It had been for show. He wanted them to see that he had a close relationship with Rebecca. Close enough that he had confidence in finding her where others had failed.

Thankfully, he’d found a servant who had seen her go outside.

Coming upon her, tucked into the back of the garden, curled up beneath the tree and oblivious to all the world around her, had done strange things to him. She’d appeared so peaceful. Focused. Intent. It had almost been a shame to disturb her.

What possessed me to sit and read to her? He shook his head at himself, glaring down at his half-filled plate.

“Has the cold ham offended you somehow, my lord?” Lady Berwyn asked, startling him.

Christian looked up at her amused expression and forced himself to respond politely. “Not at all. I am afraid I am thinking of our fishing. Your husband brought in at least twice the number of trout as I did.”

The baron, seated near his wife, chortled happily and launched into a description of his first catch of the day.