Page 76 of Miss Devon’s Choice

Virginia stopped her with a gentle touch on Rebecca’s shoulder, then she spoke earnestly. “That isn’t true, Rebecca. I can promise you that it isn’t. I’ve been watching you both, out of concern for you and this match. At first, it seemed Lord Easton was a little standoffish. But after the day of the picnic, he’s warmed to you. His eyes seek you out whenever he enters a room, or he watches the door when he hopes you will soon arrive. There is a tenderness to his expression when he looks at you.”

Rebecca turned her head away, her eyes taking in the flowers growing around them. They were in the rear gardens, nearest the hill leading down to the lake. The deep scent of so many flowers hung in the air around them, strong and heady. They nearly made her dizzy. Or was it the thought of Christian looking at her tenderly?

“And I believe he cares for you a great deal,” Virginia added. “Which is why I thought I’d tell you to go down to the boathouse.”

“What?” Rebecca brought her head around quickly at that, seeing her cousin’s secretive smile. “The boathouse?”

“Just before breakfast, he asked Lucas if he might take a boat out upon the lake. I am certain he wished to take his exercise at the oars again. And he seemed…agitated. I thought you should know—you might want to go to him.” Virginia folded her hands before her and her expression turned hopeful. “You are both out of sorts. When that happens with Lucas and me, it means there is something we ought to discuss.”

The path down to the lake lay just to the right of where they stood. “My slippers,” Rebecca said, already knowing the excuse was a weak one. “They’re new. And they won’t survive the grass….” Her voice trailed off, her heart already having made the decision for her. Rebecca met her cousin’s eyes again. “Do not tell Aunt.” Without another word, she thrust her journal into Virginia’s arms and whirled toward the lake path. She went down it at speed, lifting her skirts enough to protect the hems.

I shouldn’t run. I shouldn’t. He may be in the middle of the lake and not back to the boathouse for half an hour. Or all day. Who knows?

Despite giving herself that lecture, Rebecca didn’t slow down.

It felt good to run. She wore no bonnet, no gloves, and she could feel the breeze twist and turn about her. Her slippers grew wet in the grass, and she knew she was ruining them, but she wanted to get to Christian. To speak to him. To thank him for making certain she received her dresses. And to find out why he was out of sorts.

The door to the boathouse was open. She slowed when she saw it, taking deep breaths in a futile effort to calm her racing heart.

*

Muttering to himself in Italian, Christian sat in the boat, still docked in the boathouse. He’d removed his coat, hanging it up on a spare hook. He had discovered his oars were mismatched. He got out of the boat again, onto the boards, and started looking inside other boats and the oars that hung on pegs on the wall.

He found oars of his preferred length and turned back to his boat, but a flash of blue caught his eye. He turned, startled, and saw Rebecca framed in the doorway, the morning light streaming in behind her, making her deep brown hair shine with rich golden highlights. She peered into the boathouse, her brows furrowed and her expression uncertain.

“Christian?”

He leaned the oar up against the wall and gave her a proper bow, more formal than necessary. He’d missed her since dinner the night before. She’d been avoiding him, he was certain, when she went to her room before the men joined the ladies in the parlor.

“Good morning, Rebecca.” What was she doing down at the boathouse when most would still be at breakfast?

“Good morning.” She took a hesitant step inside, her hand still on the door frame. “Are you—are you well?”

He tilted his head to one side, taking in her appearance more carefully. He’d never seen that dress upon her. It was soft in color and form, without the multitude of ruffles, frills, and laces he’d seen on her thus far. It suited her, accentuating her tall, trim frame. She’d received her parcel from her sister, then, and this was her commissioned gown.

Her hair was mostly up, with a few waving locks escaping to brush against her cheek and the curve of her neck and shoulder. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright.

She appeared nervous, and his stomach fluttered at the revelation.

“I am well.” He took a step closer. “Are you?”

She shook her head. “No. I mean, I am well enough. But I have been out of sorts since yesterday, and I wanted to apologize for that. I also wanted to thank you for getting Christine’s parcel to me.”

“Ah.” He stood closer to her, nearly close enough to touch her if he but reached out a hand. “Is that where the dress came from?” She nodded, her eyes not leaving his. “It’s lovely.”

“Thank you.” She stared at him another moment. “Aren’t you going to ask why I am out of sorts?”

He couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his lips. How did she always manage to cheer him with nothing more than a few words? Sometimes only a look. “Why are you out of sorts?”

Rebecca lifted one shoulder in a shrug, tucking her hands behind her. “I have been this way since I learned that you wished to end our betrothal.”

Christian’s head snapped up, cold shock filling his veins. “How did you learn--?” He cut himself off and narrowed his eyes. “Your father found out.”

“Your grandfather contacted him through their solicitors,” she answered calmly, watching him with large brown eyes.

“Rebecca, I—” He couldn’t think of what to say, how to explain what had happened. He ran both hands through his hair, without regard to the mess he made.

“Is it true?” she asked softly. “You didn’t wish to marry me?”