“Rationalize,” he said. “I haven’t known you long but—and please beg my pardon—I’m beginning to see a pattern. In mine, I see things as they are. It’s the only way I can survive. The world isn’t always safe or pleasant, but I know how to live with it. You, on the other hand, are like a character in one of your novels searching for adventure, the circumstances contrived of your own imagination. You believe you can change your lot. That you have control over your universe and that good triumphs over evil.” He finally looked at her. “It doesn’t.
Both his verbosity and his assessment caught her off guard. She didn’t know whether to be offended or flattered. “I believe I’m more grounded than you give me credit for.”
“Are you? Then why did you run away? Such a dramatic notion, that. And of course in the novels, all ends well, doesn’tit?” He stepped up to higher ground and took her elbow to help her up. “Let’s see, if you are the heroine, Viscount Grossett must be the villain who is keeping you from”—he paused for dramatic emphasis—“true Love.”
“What is your point, Mr. Campion?” she asked crisply.
“That the reality is, Miss Harrell, most arranged marriages are more satisfying than those based upon whims. You are a wealthy young woman. If you were my daughter, I wouldn’t leave anything to chance, either.”
“Is my father paying you to say this, too?” she demanded crossly. “Or are you expecting an extra bonus. And you know nothing of the literature I read.”
He jumped down from a rock and reached up to help her down. “Most men see eye to eye.”
She slapped his hand away and jumped down herself. “It’s a new day, Mr. Campion. Women have minds as well as bodies.”
“Yes, and it’s their bodies I most admire. Their minds, especially when they are attempting to be logical, are a pain in the arse.” He started walking down the road without waiting for her.
In three hurried steps, Lyssa caught his arm and pulled him to a halt. The muscles beneath the material were like tempered steel. They surprised her but she held her ground. Looking him in the eye, she said, “I am not chattel to be sold for a title. I want a man I can loveandrespect, and that man isnotRobert.”
“Unfortunately, under the law youarechattel,” he replied blankly. “You can petition to change the law, Miss Harrell, but you might be wise to stay home to do it.”
Lyssa could have stomped her foot she was so angry. She almost preferred his silence! “Why are you being so provocative?”
He started walking again and she followed. “I was merely making an observation.”
“Yes, that you are sensible and I am not. That is what this conversation is about. How I should stay home, keep recipes, and do needlework.”
“You aren’t sensible,” he agreed. “Sensible women do not take up with the likes of Charley and ‘Bawd House’ Betty—”
“I thought they were a family of Gypsies.”
He didn’t miss a beat. “—orwant to be adopted by a family of Gypsies.”
She followed him in frustrated silence. He argued with the efficiency of a barrister.
They had traveled maybe a quarter of a mile farther before she said, “Why shouldn’t I have some adventure in my life? Why should I be expected to be happy attending a few routs, having a husband chosen for me, and then being carted off to some musty old estate to raise my children, count linens, and think of what to serve for dinner? Isn’t there more to life than that? After all, you are a man who has lived fully. Would you be happy with my lot in life?”
“Idealism is a waste of time, Miss Harrell. Adangerouswaste of time.”
“And how would you know?” she challenged.
“I used to be idealistic.”
Lyssa lengthened her stride to keep shoulder to shoulder with him. “So what are you now?”
“Pragmatic.” He shifted the knapsack to his other shoulder, and taking her arm at the elbow, helped her jump a deep, water-filled rut in the road. Arushing stream curved close to this section of the way and it must have overfilled its banks during the night. The hem of her dress got wet. She ignored it.
“I can be pragmatic,” she refuted. “But if one can change one’s fate, why not try?”
“Because it is easier to flow with the current and not against.”
With a jolt, she sensed there was a wealth of the unspoken in his words. She studied him from beneath her lashes, attempting to picture a younger and idealistic Ian Campion. The task was impossible.
He must have felt her staring. He turned, meeting her eyes as if daring her to say more.
She accepted the challenge. “Do you speak out of experience or because you lack the imagination to try?”
Her insult forced a reluctant smile from him. “What do you think?”
