“I suppose he is not as dashing as some, but he is handsome in his own right.”
Lord Camden laughed. “I did not mean his appearance either. Just take your time to get to know him better before you commit your heart.”
I thought his advice sage, and I told my own heart to do the same with Lord Camden. I feared my resolve was slipping with the rush of an avalanche. My hand was still warm at my side from his touch.
“Does that mean you will let Mr. Abramson call on me?” Augusta asked. “He alluded that he had come to do so today but that you had not been keen on the idea.”
Lord Camden sighed. “Yes. He may call on you.”
“Thank you, Atlas.” Augusta reached over and squeezed his arm. “It’s exhausting having others make decisions for me. I would prefer to make my own where Mr. Abramson is concerned.”
“Forgive me,” he said. “I know you are capable.”
“You’re being protective. I understand.”
It was a sweet exchange, and oddly I did not feel like I was intruding. I felt comfortable, like I belonged beside them.
Augusta smiled at me, as if she had read my thoughts. “If you’ll both excuse me now, I am going to tell our housekeeper to send tea up early. I’m feeling a little peckish.”
I took a step to follow, but she held up her hand. “Contrary to certain opinions in this house, I can manage a few tasks without the help of my dutiful companion.” She gave me a sly smile and sauntered off.
That scheming little minx.
Atlas chuckled softly beside me.
Atlas . . . When had I begun thinking of him as anything other than Lord Camden? I had no one to blame but myself. As for finding myself alone with him again, I knew exactly who to blame. I stole a sideways glance at him. “Your sister is quite troublesome.”
He shrugged. “We did try to warn you when you arrived.”
I laughed. “I suppose you did.” I wanted to revisit our conversation about why he did not think the idea of us absurd and what he meantspecifically by it, but I was a coward of the worst sort. I thought of something safer. “Are you planning to join us in the drawing room for tea?” I could hear the hopefulness in my own voice and inwardly cringed.
“You know, I am feeling a little peckish myself.” His mischievous sideways grin sent a quiet flutter through my middle. He extended his arm to me. I wanted to tell him that I preferred his warm hand but bit my tongue. What was this sudden hunger for his touch?
I took his arm and immediate pleasure filled me. An arm was a nice appendage too.
Inside the drawing room, we sat beside each other on the sofa. Our shoulders touched as we talked openly together about a variety of subjects—including another argument about bread being better with jam or cheese. But we discussed new things too. Neither of us cared for being measured for new clothes, but we both enjoyed the end product. Lawn bowls and archery were favorites, but he added pugilism, fencing, and of course, horses to his list of hobbies, where I could only add music and embroidery. We were both fans of Homer and Milton but disagreed about Byron—our discussion on that topic growing a bit heated.
“He had no values,” Atlas argued. “TakeDon Juan. The poem is irreverent toward marriage and religion. Byron was a radical. No, I cannot enjoy his writing. His lifestyle tainted his work.” His voice drifted as he said the latter, as if the very idea was contagious and unforgivable.
“I concede your point. However, you must note that he gave his life in an attempt to join the Christian cause of the Greek’s fight for independence from the Ottomans. Did that not redeem him?”
He shook his head. “We are at an impasse. Who else can we argue over? Robert Burns?”
“Don’t you dare take jabs at a witty man of the people.” I laughed at his wide-eyed response to the passion in my voice.
“Ah, a fan of Scotland, are you?” he asked. “My mother would not approve. She prefers pure-blooded, refined English to anything else. But the Irish are much worse than the Scottish. The very country of Ireland is like a curse word on her tongue.”
My humor melted in an instant. Of course Lady Camden hated the Irish. It was not an uncommon prejudice. Did he feel at all the same? What would I do if he did?
“What is it?” he asked. “Did the mention of my mother put you in ill humor?” He meant it as teasing, but he had no idea how close he was to the truth. “She is not as harsh as she sometimes appears to be.”
I gave him a look that told him I did not believe it.
“She has had to manage quite a lot without my father. I was not the easiest child—or adult, for that matter—and Augusta has been a trial to her. My sister . . . my sister Athena. She was the perfect one. Her death changed everything.”
“How so?” My stomach clenched, dreading what he would say.
“She died in Ireland. We were visiting close family friends. Athena was out walking along the cliffs with two of them near our age. The ground was saturated after several days of hard rain and it gave way. It was an accident, but Mother will never see it that way. She turned her back on her friend and the entire country that day.”
