Cider without nutmeg. He listens like a spy but blushes like a poem.
Indeed, no one could claim Marlowe did not pay attention. Not in the penetrating, almost forensic way that Darcy observed everything—as if cataloguing weaknesses—but in a gentler, more reverent manner, like a schoolboy taking notes on a subject he hoped might one day like him back.
It was... flattering. And unnerving.
Men who noticed things were either useful or dangerous, and Captain Marlowe, she was beginning to suspect, might be both. Not in the sense of cunning, or risk—but because he seemed so determined to get it right. So painfully eager to please. He memorized her preferences like they were battle plans, brought her drinks tailored to her offhand remarks, retrieved holly as though it were a medal of honor.
She sipped the cider again and swallowed carefully.
She had meant to encourage him. Truly, she had. But it was proving harder than expected to admire a man who never seemed entirely sure he deserved to be standing beside her.
He hovered beside the brazier, eyes darting to her boots, then to the bench, then back again. Was he trying to decide whether to offer his arm or fetch a blanket or excuse himself entirely? The poor man behaved as if every woman required constant supervision and half a dozen cushions.
Elizabeth said nothing, unsure whether encouraging him meant inviting more of this fluttering solicitude or gently guiding him toward firmer ground. She shifted slightly, as if to make room on the bench—but not enough to suggest she needed company.
His gaze flicked toward Jane, who stood serenely silent beside the fire, holding her cup and watching him with calm interest. Somehow, that stillness seemed to unnerve him more than a direct assault.
“I—ah—should see about another cushion for the bench,” he said quickly. “The wind comes in strongest from this side.”
He was gone before either sister could respond.
Elizabeth sipped her cider. “That was a retreat,” she said dryly.
Jane tilted her head. “I did nothing.”
“Precisely,” said Elizabeth. “And it terrified him.”
Jane sipped her cider, one brow arched as she stared, unblinkingly, at Elizabeth.
“You need not say it,” Elizabeth muttered, her boot heel nudging at a scorched chip of bark.
“I am not certain I was going to,” Jane said mildly, her eyes still on the fire.
Elizabeth stared at the cider in her hands. “He is very kind.”
“Undeniably.”
“And attentive.”
Jane’s laugh was more breath than sound. “Painfully.”
Elizabeth glanced at her. “I am being serious.”
“So am I.” Jane’s lips quirked. “I admire attentiveness as much as the next lady. But he does seem to believe you incapable ofkeeping your seat by a fire without the aid of three cushions and a naval escort.”
Elizabeth exhaled. “It is in his nature to be considerate.”
“I know. But is it your nature to take to your cushions like a coddled pug?”
Elizabeth looked down, running her thumb over the edge of the tin cup. The steam rose in quiet tendrils.
“If you are not serious,” Jane said softly, “it might be cruel to let him believe otherwise.”
“I am not encouraging him.”
Jane’s brow lifted.
“I am not!” Elizabeth insisted. “He brought cider. That is hardly—”
