“I like to think so.” Blake smiled. “Has that satisfied your curiosity?”
“Yes, it has. Thank you.” Jane smiled back.
“A wager is a wager. On that note, have you managed to read Byron yet?” Blake’s eyes glittered, the tension of the previous moment almost vanishing.
Jane rolled her eyes. “Yes. Somewhat unsurprisingly, there are several copies of his works in the library. Apparently, both Cressida and Lord Glastonbury love his works.”
“And what did you think?” Blake asked.
“You were right,” Jane mumbled.
“Pardon?” Blake cupped a hand around his ear and leaned towards her. His scent made her stomach flutter. “I did not quite catch that, perhaps you could say it again?”
“I said you were right.” She scowled at him.
She had avoided Byron because of his reputation, and now she had been forced to read his work and actually enjoyed it. “His verse is elegant and flowing. His words are beautiful—I read the entire anthology.”
“See what you have been missing out on simply because you disapprove of his character?” Blake laughed. “If you had let go of your prejudices, you could have enjoyed his work well before now.”
“I still prefer Charlotte Smith.” Jane tried not to sound petulant as she said it.
“They are very different poets,” Blake conceded. “For someone who seems to love her work so much, it is surprising that you let it inform your life so little.”
“What do you mean?” Jane crossed her arms over her chest, feeling suddenly defensive.
Blake’s blue eyes found hers, and for a moment, she felt wholly exposed. “Smith talks about so many things in her work, but she captures so much of the emotion of human existence.” He took a step closer, a playful smile spreading across his face. “The longing, the hope, the despair. How can you be so enamored with such a poet and yet seem to balk at feeling such things yourself?”
“And what makes you think I balk at such things?” Jane asked, rooted to the spot by his gaze.
“The way you keep yourself on such a tight rein. At least, when I have seen you away from this castle,” he replied.
“And have you often seen me away from here? For I only recall meeting you once.” Jane raised an eyebrow.
“That does not mean I have not seen you. Just that I have never approached you,” Blake pointed out.
Jane let out a theatrical sigh and took a step back. “And how wonderful our lives might have been if you never approached me.”
“Come now, you would miss our witty exchanges,” he teased, taking another step towards her.
“Are they particularly witty?” Jane laughed softly, though she pretended to be interested in a patch of wildflowers to avoid his gaze.
“On my part, certainly.” Blake’s voice came out softer, almost hoarse.
Her eyes met his, and the fluttering sensation in the pit of her stomach returned.
“Then it is rather sad to see what you think of as wit.” Jane could see the hard lines of his face, the faint trace of his stubble.
When had he gotten so close?
Her lips parted slightly, her eyes roaming over his face as though searching for something. And then she realized what she was doing. Hastily, she took another step back, shaking her head as her cheeks flushed with embarrassment.
Jane looked at him, noting his flushed face. “We should return to the castle. I am sure they will be serving breakfast soon.”
“Of course.” Blake glanced at her, looking as though he wanted to say more, but Jane turned away from him.
“I shall use that tree stump to mount my horse.” Jane untied her mare and guided him to the stump, gracefully mounting her and urging her into a walk.
Blake soon appeared beside her. For a while, they rode in silence.
