“My father did. I was about your age, I suppose. He said a good hedge lasts longer than a bad treaty.”
Pearl’s laughter surprised him. It was light and unstudied, like the sound a brook makes when it rounds a bend. “A practical man, your father.”
Victor glanced beside him, catching her profile. The light had sharpened the planes of her face, and the cold put a flush in her cheeks. Wisps of auburn hair escaped from their pins, lashed her jawline. He watched her for a moment longer than necessary, until she turned and caught him at it. He affected a cough, then bent as if to inspect the horses’ reins. “We’ll take the long path if that’s agreeable.”
“That would be splendid,” Pearl replied, and if she noticed the tremor in his voice, she didn’t acknowledge it.
The road narrowed as they entered the woods. Victor eased back on the reins, slowing the pace to savor the silence. He felt the press of the moment—two girls and a woman who had once nearly undone him, all warm and alive and somehow entirely in his care. It was, he realized, the most dangerous sort of happiness, the kind that made a man reckless.
He half-turned on the bench, pretending to check the children, but really to look at Pearl again. She met his gaze directly this time, eyes bright with some secret she wasn’t inclined to share.
He leaned in, lowering his voice for her alone. “If you’re cold, I can adjust the rug,” he offered. “Or perhaps you’d prefer to trade seats with one of the girls. The back is less exposed.”
Pearl gave him a look equal parts amusement and challenge. “Are you always so solicitous, Victor, or is this a special service for helpless widows?”
“Only for those who refuse to shiver.” It came out sharper than intended, but she didn’t flinch.
“I assure you, I am perfectly warm,” she replied, but her fingers twisted at the edge of the fur, betraying her.
He hesitated, then reached across, brushing her hand with the back of his glove as he tucked the robe closer around her knees. The contact was brief, but it left a phantom heat in its wake. He withdrew his hand as if burned.
“Very well, Lady Graveley,” he said, and this time his smile was real. “But if you perish of cold, I’ll be forced to explain myself to your daughters—and I shudder to think of their cross-examination.”
Pearl’s eyes danced, but she didn’t reply. Instead, she turned to her daughters with a large smile. It was a clear dismissal, but not an unkind one.
Victor felt the impulse to press further, to test the line between courtesy and boldness, but restrained himself. He had never liked the sensation of chasing a woman, not even in youth. It smacked too much of desperation. Better to let the field lie fallow, and see what might sprout in spring.
To fill the silence, he addressed the girls. “Would you like to hear the tale of the Rettendon Wolf?”
Alice practically levitated. “There’s a wolf?”
Susie, skeptical, raised a single brow. “You never mentioned a wolf last night.”
He launched into the story, drawing from the old estate legend of a spectral wolf that haunted the outer woods, warning children who strayed from the path. The tale was embroidered with enough menace to keep the girls entranced, but not so much as to spark nightmares. Pearl listened, too, and hewatched as her expression softened, the tension around her mouth relaxing with every turn of the story.
They crested a low hill, and the view opened to a wide expanse of snowbound fields, sparkling under the new sun. In the far distance, a line of red deer trotted single file along a hedgerow, their breath visible in the air.
“Look, Mama!” cried Alice. “The deer!” She half-rose, nearly toppling from the seat before her mother’s arm reeled her back in.
Victor slowed the sleigh until it drifted gently. “They winter in the north copse,” he said, indicating the stand of trees with a jerk of his chin. “If you’re very quiet, you can hear them chewing the bark.”
The girls fell instantly, comically silent, straining for any sound. Pearl’s hand, still resting on Alice’s shoulder, relaxed its grip.
Victor allowed the silence to grow, then said in a voice just above a whisper, “It’s the best time of year, really. The land tells its secrets when it thinks no one is listening.”
Pearl met his gaze again, her own voice soft. “Do you listen, Victor?”
He considered the question, letting it settle in the space between them. “More than I ought,” he replied. “It’s a failing.”
She shook her head, smiling. “I doubt you have many failings left.”
He wanted to say, I never learned to forget you, but the words would not fit past his pride.
Instead, he turned forward, flicked the reins, and sent the sleigh sailing down the next slope, bells shattering the quiet into shards of bright sound. The girls cheered. Pearl, caught up in the momentum, laughed with abandon.
Victor let the wind take his words and tried very hard not to think about the warmth he would feel if she let him try again.
***
