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She studied him for long seconds, not trying for a witty answer but looking for his motivations. “Tell me, Thornton.” A pause for emphasis. “Who was this woman who warped your concept of our gender?” His six-foot-four frame stilled to the point of becoming a statue. A magnificent statue of a gladiator. “It was not your mother, right? Uncle said she carried her heart on her sleeve.”
He stood there unmoving for so long that she thought he would not answer. His glare the only living thing in him, darting contempt and another emotion she did not identify, resentment perhaps. “We are talking about you. Do not deflect.” The command came cold and hard.
Despite the way he unbalanced her, she managed to sketch a coaxing little grin that seemed to hit him somehow. “Come on, my lord.” She broadened the grin. “All this disdain must have a cause,” she taunted.
The skin on his stark face pulled tight as his unforgiving jaw ticked with what must be stifled emotion. “I fail to see how this has anything to do with you.”
“It must, for you have been treating me like a schemer for…” She pretended to count on her fingers, “why, eight years.”
He crossed his bunched arms over his broad chest. “And you are not?”
“Well, no, your Lordship.” The scowl on him made her aware he did not want her to call him by his title. Good. He had to deserve the closeness his given name implied. Closeness, friendship. Trust.
“Prove it.” If possible, his frame looked even more solidly planted on the ground.
“I suppose the burden of proof lies with the accuser.” She scored a victory here, she celebrated.
“I never accused you of anything.” His tone was an octave lower.
“You did not need to. And you have just made a remark on women,” Otilia threw. She was beginning to suspect something, or someone was instrumental in his present view on the matter.
“Every female I meet in society does not make it a secret she aims at an advantageous marriage. What else am I to conclude from it?”
He should not be surprised. For ladies of breeding, few options lay open. “You strayed away from our main topic, I fear,” she responded instead.
“I maintain my point,” he insisted.
But he did not answer what made him a cynic. Interesting.
Her face acquired a knowing look. “Short-sighted, in my opinion. You are walled inside your own prejudices.” She gave him her back unapologetically and started striding away. “Good afternoon, my lord.” Her arm lifted in a carefree wave. “Do not bother awaiting me for dinner. I just lost my appetite.”
A
Edmund stood by his study window watching as Otilia sat with a book in the garden. The afternoon presented a faint sun and a gentle breeze.
They had not seen much of one another in three days. As if in common accord, they stayed out of each other’s way.
Not that he had stopped thinking about her, or the things she told him, and how right he must own she had been. He behaved like an obnoxious bastard. He had no problem admitting it to himself. Her questions and her remarks kept repeating in his head, ceaselessly. So, he had no choice but to address them. It bore no denying he insisted in colouring his views of relationships with his one bad experience. Coraline had done wrong by him, but he rationally recognised she did not represent every female in the world. His mother, for one, had been one of the truest people he had ever met. Inside, however, where reason did not reach, he suspected every woman to be schemers, to use Otilia’s own term.
The time came for him to grow out of his ‘walled prejudice’, to quote the siren once more. To be an Earl, one who had come from the non-noble ranks, showed him that possessing a title made him a target. He understood clearly that the ladies of the ton suffered pressure to marry and continue the blue-blooded lineages. The noble families ingrained it in their daughters from a tender age.
It was dif
ferent for non-noble women. Most had no choice other than to work to support their homes, especially the poor ones. They entered into service, worked in factories, taverns, shops. A life outside their houses would always be a given.
He must keep these facts in mind and observe reality for what it displayed. He had been unlucky that he almost got entrapped by someone interested solely in his title. But if he looked around, he would see many other facets pertaining to the matter. He promised himself to work on it.
A little meow called his attention back to the garden. Down on the grass, a small, scrawny kitten made its way to the bench where Otilia sat. She looked down, and seeing the tiny matted creature, she bent to take it in her hands. The smile that came to her full lips was so soft and gentle it did something to that organ lodged inside his ribs, the one he had forgotten all about for years. Dainty hands caressed the feline. It could not be more than a month old, all black and fluffy. Her sultry voice carried out to him as she said something to it, but he did not discern what.
As if hypnotised, he opened the glass door to the garden and strode to the bench, his eyes never leaving her. Her smile and the strokes of her fingers on the kitten’s fur had a nefarious effect on his peace of mind. Not least because he suspected he became jealous of a lost little feline.
“Where is your mama, my darling?” he heard her say as he approached and sat beside her.
The book lay open on her lap as her whole attention fell on the little thing. The cat mewled and bumped its head on her arm, extracting joyous sounds from Otilia.
“Perhaps, it has just been weaned,” he said in answer to her question.
Her look turned to him abruptly as if she had not noticed him there. “No doubt.” The simple answer made him jubilant that she even addressed him.
