"Appeal," she repeated. "As in, the appearance that I am a young woman worth knowing. Sponsored by a duchess, escorted by a marquess, and generally not someone to be pitied or avoided."
His frown deepened as he waited for her to go on.
"As it stands…" she continued. And now there was a definite tartness to her voice that he'd never heard before. "I'm afraid any gentleman in the vicinity will be convinced I'm the worst conversationalist in London. Perhaps even a horribly offensive one."
His brows came down as he glanced around them, ready to call out any cad who’d suggest such a thing. "Why would they think that?"
"Because you've been glowering at me since we left the carriage, and this"—she waved a hand between them—"this is the most either of us has spoken since we arrived."
Sebastian opened his mouth, but not even a “yes” found its way out. He took stock of his features and forced his scowl to subside into something slightly less grim.
Truthfully, he'd been so focused on maintaining his composure, he hadn’t realized how he might look to passersby.
Turning to look straight ahead, he saw two ladies whispering as they gaped at him. They weren’t staring in fascination. No. No, that was definitely fear he saw in their eyes when he looked their way.
Or rather…when he glared in their direction.
He just barely held back a huff of annoyance. She was right, of course. He was supposed to be making her look appealing to potential suitors. Instead, he was making her look like a woman being escorted to the gallows by a particularly displeased executioner.
"Do you see what I mean?" Her tone was adorably pert, her chin tipped up in that brave way of hers.
"I'm not glowering," he said. Which was a lie.
"You are," she said. "You've been glowering since the duchess's drawing room." Under her breath, so soft he nearly missed it, she added, "Possibly since birth."
Then it happened. A strange tightening in his chest, almost like?—
No. He would absolutely not laugh. He cleared his throat instead. "My apologies." His words came out more droll than apologetic. "I’m afraid I don't have Fairchild's gift for idle chatter."
She was quiet for a moment, but then that tart tone was back, albeit under her breath. "He is quite the gifted storyteller."
Irritation rose up quickly. "Yes, well, I am sorry to say I don’t have a humorous goose tale to regale you with. We’ll have to find another way to pass the time."
Silence. He inwardly cursed himself. After two years, he had the chance to speak privately with the woman who’d occupied his thoughts every day and every night, and he…
He’d chided her. About a goose.
"Actually…" she started.
Something in her tone had him glancing over. He nearly wished he hadn’t when he caught the way her lips struggled to contain a smile and the laughter dancing in her eyes. "I believe you do."
He frowned down at her. "I beg your pardon?"
She grinned, and his heart responded to it with a swift kick to his ribs. He swallowed hard and looked away.
"You do have a story about a goose," she said. "I remember it from one of Andrew’s letters."
He looked over so quickly, he nearly tripped over his own feet. Oh yes, she was beaming at him. And possibly…laughing at him.
Brave little thing. Foolish, but brave.
"I don’t know what you’re talking about." But even as he said the words, it came back to him. He was struck all at once by images from that ridiculous night.
"I remember it now." Estella’s voice was filled with laughter. "Andrew told me about how you and he and some of the other boys stole a goose from a neighboring farm and brought it into the headmaster's study. And it—what was it? It ate his wig?"
"It didn't eat his wig." The correction was out of his mouth before he could stop it. "It was sitting on his wig."
Her lips parted. She was clearly surprised and delighted. Which was the only explanation for the next words that came out of his mouth.
