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They’d sat on the grass in the country, very carefully not touching, and let all the heat they felt express itself in contradictions and laughter and careful innuendo. It had been as close as they could come to touching.
Now, they were still arguing. And he was looking at her with that gleam in his eye, the one that had always made her want to throw all caution to the wind.
Judith pointed at the packed dirt road ahead of them. “Watch where you’re driving. That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve heard. You cannot honestly believe that offering gentle, appropriate sympathy to a bereaved woman at her husband’s funeral is equivalent to asking her, ‘Who is the greatest chicken-killer in English literature?’ One of them supports her in her grief; the other attempts to cajole her out of her very real emotions because it’s inconvenient for her to be glum.”
Christian considered this. “I take your point. I agree that there is a time and a place for jocularity. I simply think that there are more times and places for humor than others care to admit.” He glanced pointedly at her. “We are not presently at a funeral.”
She couldn’t think of him at her father’s funeral. He shouldn’t even have come, shouldn’t have offered his support. He shouldn’t have found her alone afterward. He shouldn’t have asked her to marry him, as if marrying the man who was the cause of her grief would make it all better. He shouldn’t have.
“By the by,” he put in, “who is the greatest chicken-killer in English literature?”
“Hamlet’s uncle.” Judith shut her eyes. “He did murder most foul.”
Christian looked over at her. His eyes widened. “Lady Judith, I am outraged. You dare take me to task when you were delivering a pun of that magnitude? There is no time, no place, for a joke like that. Ever.” A smile indicated that he was joking. Of course; he was always joking.
“Only a mallard like you would say that,” Judith said primly. “I find the murder of fowl extremely depraved.”
The fowl were out in force in the park today. Ducks wandered the green, and another swan ahead was snapping at bread offered by a…well, that child was technically not offering the bread to the swan so much as holding it above his head and trying to fend the bird off.
Christian smiled at her, leaning an inch closer. “If I were a mallard, I’d think you would be more inclined to fowl-murder.”
Once she’d loved this about him—that they could talk any subject upside down and inside out. Now, she could feel the pull of their old friendship, of that magical summer together, those hours spent wandering the apple orchard, “accidentally” running into each other day after day.
If she wasn’t careful, she might fall into friendship with him again.
She looked straight ahead. “You’re not a mallard. You’re far worse. You’re a…a…”
Ahead of them, the child panicked and threw his roll. The swan that had been on the grass darted into the driving path to snap it up. It happened so fast; the bird spread its wide, white wings and lowered its beak, a mere ten feet ahead of them. No, six. The distance between them was dropping all too fast.
And Christian was looking at her, not watching the road.
“Swan!” she said. “Swan!”
His grin broadened. “I’m a swan? That’s utterly delightful!”
She grabbed his arm. “No! Swan! In the road!”
As she took hold of his wrist, the swan hissed, rising up and spreading its wings. One horse reared; the curricle rocked. Her stomach dropped, dizzyingly, and she held on tightly. The other horse whinnied in a panic and pawed the air. For a second, as the curricle tilted precariously, Judith feared the conveyance would overturn. She braced herself, gritting her teeth, expecting the worst.
The bird took to wing at the last possible instant. Christian pulled on the reins, and after pawing the air one last time, the horses quieted.
Judith’s pounding heart was left as the only evidence that anything had transpired. That, she realized, and her hands—both of which she’d clamped firmly around Christian’s arm. She’d reached for him without thinking.
She could feel him through those layers of wool and linen—the curve of his arm, the tautness of muscle tensed from holding the horse back. Taking hold of him had brought her entire body next to his, and she felt the warmth of him now. He might have heard the beat of her heart, it was thumping so loudly.
He turned to her, looking into her eyes.
Her pulse was only pounding because the swan had given her a fright. That was it, surely. It had nothing to do with the sparkle of his eyes, the way his gaze dropped to her lips, briefly, before sliding back up to meet her gaze. Slowly, she unwound her hands from his sleeve and did her best to scoot—surreptitiously—a good six inches away.
He’s not your friend.
Apparently, some dormant part of herself still hadn’t comprehended that after eight years. She could just as easily have grabbed the edge of the seat instead of his arm.
She hadn’t.
Christian knew now that her first reaction was to reach for him, and he was not the sort to let that sort of slip go by without a taunt or seven. Judith swallowed and clasped her hands together. He could taunt all he liked; if she pretended nothing had happened, he’d find no headway.
“Well.” Her heart was still racing. “I suppose that swan will have a story to tell his friends tonight.”
How could she tell he was smiling when she wasn’t even looking at him? That mischievous look of his was detectable from the corner of her eyes. Oh, he knew that she was not entirely indifferent to him, no matter how she wished otherwise. He was laughing at her.
“You don’t need to chortle at me,” she snapped. “You need to pay more mind to where you’re going.”
“I wasn’t laughing at you,” he said. “Just imagining what sort of story that swan would tell, if it had friends.”
She wasn’t going to ask. She wasn’t.
She resisted for four entire seconds. But that was the worst thing about Christian. He’d always roused her curiosity. He didn’t need to taunt after all. He just smiled, and in the end, she could no more have kept silent than the horses could have stopped from rearing. She crossed her arms in front of her like a shield. “Very well. What would he say?”
“Well,” Christian said, in an exaggerated Cockney accent. “You’ll never guess what I did today, Fred.”
Judith found herself blinking in confusion and turning to him. “What are you doing? Who is Fred?”
“I’m acting it out for you,” Christian said, as if playing swans were a perfectly ordinary everyday event. “The story that swan there is going to tell his friend—that’s Fred—tonight.”
She shook her head. “Swans are regal birds. They’re the property of the queen. So why would a swan have a Cockney accent?”
“Why, Judi
th. I never thought to hear such words from you. Accents aren’t all that important. They’re simply one way to separate out two groups on the basis of an irrelevant characteristic. Don’t be so damned class-focused. Besides, it’s irrational to object to the idea of swans speaking with a Cockney accent when swans have a limited English vocabulary to begin with.”
“I—” She was unable to come up with a response that didn’t involve pelting him with fruit. “That is the most ridiculous thing.”
“What is ridiculous,” he said piously, “is your attempt to import your limited local prejudice into the swan community. Swans have no care for such things. They’re much more egalitarian than our species.”
Judith sat back and gestured with an exaggerated motion. “I see. Do forgive me for that dreadful error. Please continue. What is our dear Cockney swan telling Fred?”
“You’ll never guess what I did today, Fred!” Christian said in his Cockney accent. And then, supplying a different, somewhat lower voice, he answered himself. “What did you do, Bill? Pray tell.”
“Stop.” Judith held up a hand. “I can accept a Cockney swan, but why does Fred speak with a Liverpudlian accent? Should there not be some consistency in the swan community?”
“There’s none in the human community,” Christian pointed out. “Why should swans be less varied?”
It was on the tip of her tongue to object again—after all, if swans were not importing prejudice from humans, why would they import variety?—but from the gleam in his eye, she could tell he wanted her to argue. She bit her lip and folded her arms. “Very well, then,” she said with poor grace. “Go on with your story.”
“Well, Fred,” Christian continued in his Bill-the-Cockney-Swan voice, “today, I ate a horse.”
She could not have heard him correctly. “What did you just say?”
“Come now,” Bill-the-Swan continued. “Don’t look at me like that, all disbelieving-like. Would I be having you on, when it’s a matter so closely touching my honor? You know I would never do that, my dearest darling.”
Even in that put-on accent, even with that gleam in his eye, the words dearest darling sank into her skin. He was looking at her as he said it. It tripped off his tongue so easily, as if she were his darling. As if there were no swans, Cockney or otherwise, between them.
