Page 34 of Miss Devon’s Choice

It was the first time either of them had mentioned after. His disobedient heart skipped and his stomach clenched. The simultaneous sensations were at odds with each other. He would have to sort that out later.

“Why would I want to stop you from doing something you like?” he asked, shaking his head. “As you said, I enjoy novels as well.”

Still not looking at him, her manner somewhat subdued, she spoke with false cheer. “I must confess, I don’t entirely know what I expect from marriage.”

Christian’s stomach twisted again and his step faltered. Her candor inspired his own. “I’m not certain of that either.”

He lowered his eyes to her hand on his arm. She hadn’t been what he expected when his grandfather informed him of the match, of the reasons why a young woman would connect herself to Christian without knowing him. All she had known, all she could’ve known, was the information pertaining to his title and wealth. Perhaps whispers in society. He’d imagined something far different than the woman at his side. He’d pictured someone with more of society’s harsh veneer, a calculating look to the eyes, and a distinct disinterest in him.

Instead, he had Rebecca Devon on his arm. She radiated warmth, smiled easily, and, apart from the reaction to her first sight of him, had never given him reason to think she found him lacking.

At the moment, she regarded him with a bemused expression. He raised his eyebrows, inviting her to speak. Her mouth quirked up on one side.

“I am still determined to fall in love with you,” she said.

His first instinct was to drop her arm and run.

But he was an adult. A man with responsibilities, maturity, the ability to reason. He forced a chuckle. If he treated her declaration with all the seriousness it deserved—which was none—she must eventually let the matter drop.

“Love? Love isn’t an emotion in which I place any value.” He continued their walk, the boathouse but steps away.

Rebecca tugged on his arm, pulling him to a stop. “My lord, you cannot be serious. Love is—is important. It is a strong foundation of friendship, of marriage. Dismissing it, saying there is no value to it, that cannot be how you truly feel.” She turned her earnest frown up to him, searching his expression, which he kept carefully closed to her.

He spoke with gentle firmness, determined for her to understand him. To accept his stance. “You have known me for a matter of days, Miss Devon. You cannot know how I feel about many topics.”

She released his arm and raised both hands, gesturing helplessly. “How can you not wish for love? To be loved? A man who enjoys Waverly, adventure and novels, you cannot dismiss romance.”

“While I admit freely to reading novels, Miss Devon, I haven’t allowed their romantic outlook to cloud my judgment.” Having spent years of his life contemplating that very thing, Christian’s response flowed easily from his lips. “Romance is the province of poets and playwrights. The rest of us live in a far more realistic sphere. Love is just another emotion that pulls the energies of life away from important tasks and distracts from what matters.” He spoke every word earnestly, willing her to see the rationality behind them.

Rebecca snorted. She, a well-bred young woman, snorted at his words. When she spoke, it was with fervor, with more emotion than he had yet seen from her.

“I find it hard to believe anything would matter if love did not exist. What is the point of living if there is no emotion, no pull to do or be something other than a poor excuse of a man or woman? It would be a dull existence, a life without love. Why would marriage matter? Children? Friendships? Where there is no affection, no meeting of hearts and mind, all relationships would be shallow—they would mean nothing.”

Her impassioned speech left her glaring up at him, her fists clenched at her sides. He only stared, impressed by the depth of her feeling despite himself. When he said nothing, she made a sound of exasperation and turned from him, stalking to the boathouse and throwing the door open.

After a moment’s pause, he followed, mulling her words over. When he entered the building, he saw her standing on her toes to peer onto a shelf full of ropes and fishing supplies. Two boats were pulled up onto the wood flooring, another was moored in the launching dock. Oars and ropes hung on hooks.

“Your dedication to love is interesting,” he said at last, devoting half his attention to their search. “Have you much experience with it? An example which you hold up to strengthen your argument? Your parents, perhaps?”

She stilled but did not turn to face him. “My parents were not in love.”

From what little he knew of her father, he had thought that might be the case. “Mine were,” he said, calmer now that he had a new avenue of argument. She must see his reasoning. She must understand, if she was to be his wife, why he could never devote himself to her in the way she imagined.

“They were?” She folded her arms and faced him, her chin at a stubborn tilt. “Then why do you object so strongly to the idea for yourself?”

He walked around the dock, putting the water between them. “Because love is what destroyed them both.” He shook his head and ran his hand through his hair. “It brought my mother to a country where she was mocked and despised, and when she died, it crushed my father. He was never the same.”

For a time, nothing was said. The lake lapped quietly into the boathouse, the boat rocking in place, tugging on its mooring rope. Christian watched a tumult of emotions cross Rebecca’s face. Surprise, disbelief, sorrow. Then compassion.

“They must have loved each other deeply to sacrifice so much,” she said at last, her voice nearly a whisper. “It sounds as though they were quite devoted to one another.”

Christian stared at her blankly. How could she not understand? Frustration bubbled up in his chest. “They were so devoted to each other that she died and all he wished to do was follow her.” His voice rising as he spoke. He tamped down on it, but his shoulders were tightening, his heart thudding against his chest.

A stream of frustrated Italian spilled from his lips. “Tu non capisci. È più complicato.” How could she understand? Someone like her, with a respectable English family, had never faced the situations he’d been exposed to from childhood. Speaking of his parents brought all his emotions to the surface, feelings he had kept buried for years pushing through his control.

“Look, it’s the half-English-mongrel!”

“Everyone knows Italians are all heart and no brain.”