He stared at her.
"I—" He swallowed."I admire you very much.You are clever and brave, and not afraid of ink, which I find comforting."
"But?"she prompted.
His shoulders sagged."But you are also vivid," he said."You say things.You do things.You fall into lakes."
She fought back a laugh."I do not do that as a hobby."
"No, but..."He ran a hand over his hair."I have realized that what I had taken for suitability was mere expectation.Your brother speaks well of you.Your parents are anxious.My mother is enthusiastic.On paper, everything aligns."
"And off paper?"
He met her gaze."Off paper, I think you would be miserable with me.I would always be trying to keep you tidy, and you would always be trying not to offend my sense of order.I do not wish to spend the rest of my life apologizing for asking my wife not to climb trees."
"I rarely climb trees," she said, wounded, "not in evening dress."
He laughed."You see?I cannot keep up."
Pity pricked her."And you?What would make you content?"
He considered, then confessed, "I should like a wife who is pleased when I speak of ledgers, who finds it soothing.Someone who is happy for our lives to be predictable."
"You deserve that," she said.
His shoulders dropped, relief loosening his jaw."Then you do not...?"
"Want to marry you?"she finished."No."
His flinch was brief."You might have lied."
"I respect you too much," she said simply."And I respect myself too much to promise what I cannot give.You are an excellent man, Lord Watford.Our difficulties stem entirely from the fact that you wish to live in straight lines, and I am ink that runs."
His eyes widened."Lady Honoria said something very similar once."
"I am both gratified and alarmed to have anything in common with Lady Honoria," Esme said dryly.
He smiled, small but genuine."Your brother will be disappointed."
"He will survive," she said."If he gives you any trouble, tell him I sent you."
Watford hesitated, then offered his hand."May we at least be friends?"
She took it, shaking solemnly."Wearefriends.And if I encounter any lady who lights up at the prospect of hearing about drainage, I shall send her directly to you."
His expression brightened, absurdly hopeful."Do you think such a lady exists?"
"Somewhere, there is a woman rearranging her inkpots for pleasure," Esme said."You must have faith."
He bowed over her hand."Thank you, Lady Esme.For your honesty, and for not letting me blunder into a marriage that would have left us both smudged."
She watched him retreat toward theballroom, then released a breath she felt as though she had been holding for months.
One expectation gently laid down.
Now came the difficult part.
James had successfully refused three games of cards, two introductions, and one earnest invitation from the Bishop to join a philanthropic committee when Watford reappeared in the conservatory doorway.
