He furrowed his brows. “How, pray tell, am I looking at you?”
“With pity,” she said, tilting her chin. “I don’t need—or want—your pity.” Her words held the curtness that he was familiar with.
“Good, because I do not pity you,” Winston replied. “I am just merely curious as to why you look…” He stopped, unsure of what he could say that wouldn’t make this situation any worse than it already was.
Miss Bawden visibly stiffened. “How do I look?” she asked, her words holding a warning. It was evident that she was waiting to be insulted.
But he didn’t want to become too predictable.
Winston took a step closer to her, but still maintained a proper distance. “You look troubled,” he settled on.
“I am fine,” she rushed out.
“Just fine?” Winston pressed.
With pursed lips, Miss Bawden regarded him. “May I ask why you care, my lord?”
Why did he care? That was an excellent question. He had been at odds with Miss Bawden for so long, except for that one weak moment when he had kissed her. But that was over a year ago, and he was different now because of it.
Knowing Miss Bawden was still waiting for a response, he said, “Contrary to your low opinion of me, I do not wish ill will to fall upon you.”
“That is incredibly thoughtful of you,” Miss Bawden responded dryly. “I can now die happily knowing you care for me.”
Winston didn’t know why he bothered. Miss Bawden only regarded him with contempt, and here he was, trying to do the right thing. Botheration. How he hated being a gentleman at times, especially around Miss Bawden.
“I am trying to be nice,” Winston said, his voice filled with exasperation.
“Well, don’t be,” Miss Bawden snapped back. “Furthermore, I came to speak to your mother, not you.”
Winston bowed slightly. “Do not let me stop you then.”
“Thank you,” Miss Bawden replied.
He should go, but there was something that was telling him to stay. And that nagging feeling is what worried him. Why should he remain in Miss Bawden’s presence? She clearly did not want him there, and he would rather be eating a biscuit than engaging in this pointless exchange.
But as he watched her, disheveled and distressed, he couldn’t shake the urge to dig deeper. There was a vulnerability about her that he had never seen before, a crack in her usually impenetrable façade. It stirred something within him, something that compelled him to stay and try to understand what had caused her such evident pain.
“Are you sure that there is nothing I can do to help?” he asked, surprising even himself with the gentleness in his voice.
Miss Bawden’s eyes flickered up to meet his, her annoyance giving way to something softer, almost likesurprise. For a moment, she seemed to hesitate, as if weighing the sincerity of his offer.
“Just… leave me be, Lord Winston,” she finally said, her voice quieter now, almost pleading.
Winston nodded, feeling a strange mix of frustration and concern. He turned to leave but couldn’t help but glance back, hoping that, perhaps, she might change her mind and let him in, just a little.
His mother stepped into the entry hall and her eyes landed on Miss Bawden. “Oh, my dear, what is wrong?” she asked, closing the distance between them.
As his mother’s arms wrapped around Miss Bawden, she fell into her embrace and let out a sob. “My aunt and uncle died,” Miss Bawden said between sobs.
Winston felt like an interloper in his own home. Not entirely sure of what he should be doing in this moment, he removed his handkerchief from his jacket pocket and extended it towards Miss Bawden.
She accepted it and stepped out of his mother’s embrace. Wiping her face with the handkerchief, she said, “I do apologize for the display of my emotions.”
“That is utter nonsense. Don’t be ashamed to cry, especially when your wounded heart needs it,” his mother declared. “Come, let’s continue this conversation in the drawing room over a cup of tea.”
“Tea would be nice.” Miss Bawden turned to face him. “Thank you for the handkerchief, my lord.”
He smiled in response. “You are welcome.”
