Absolutely no reason to hum and haw, dilly-dally or defer any longer.
He meandered to the window.
“One could remain in Cornwall for a few more days should one wish, my lord.”
“No, no. Mustn’t outstay our welcome.”
Oliver tutted, muttered, and strode from the bedchamber.
A soft breeze filtered through the half-open window, bearing fresh brine, damp grass and a lightness too difficult to explain.
The sky had lost its deep azure and now resembled…well, Tamsyn’s eyes. A pale blue that beckoned one to dive deep and discover all its treasure. He blinked, the luminosity almost painful.
London seemed grey and far away and…foreign.
Petrok stomped across the lawn, tail feathers unfolding in exotic iridescence, and Jack idly wondered where he might obtain a mate for the lonesome male.
But of course, he was leaving so couldn’t anyhow… And no one had actually asked him to stay.
Moreover, yesterday and this morning, Tamsyn had acted so matter of fact.
She’d helped him pack, talked of the Ladies League painting auction, and nattered on about how excited he must be at the prospect of returning to the hustle and bustle of London.
And she had the right of it, without doubt.
Perchance this odd feeling would lift when he crossed London’s outer limits, mayhap this peculiar tightness to his chest, which had plainly worsened overnight, would ease as he breathed air tinged witheau deThames andpoudre decoal dust.
Jack ambled over to check the bottom drawer of the wardrobe as surely one day he’d catch meticulous Miggens unawares with an overlooked handkerchief. But all it held was the scent of beeswax polish.
Over the course of yesternight’s restless sleep, twisted thoughts had assailed him – that if Tamsyn was with child, she’d have no choice but to be bound to him…
Yet what if he broke her heart?
At his mother’s graveside with all of thirteen years, he’d vowed never to cause a woman such misery as his father had done.
And Jack, as current marquess, was a Winterbourne through and through – only had to glance in the mirror to realise that.
Strong, brave Tamsyn deserved more than a rogue.
But… He pinched his forehead, a headache looming. Father would have searched out pastures new after a day…or perhaps breakfast. Seduced Mrs Tripconey, the married Lady Cooch, maids, scullery servants, and possibly Mrs Pencally.
No one other than Tamsyn had filled Jack’s fretting thoughts since their collision on Goonhilly Downs.
But… There was the matter of their differences. He adored crowds and amusement, the theatre and dancing. Tamsyn adored this land, riding carefree and sharing the peaceful night with her winged creatures. She loved Cornwall with all its legends, moors and shifting sands.
How would she enjoy the crush of a London ballroom?
Would she be able to breathe?
Puttering to the window again, he noticed his coach had been readied, Sobers the coachman tapping crop against boot, the horses restless.
Well, no more to be done. Time for the rogue to depart. He had to cease all this introspection and brooding or he’d be scribbling poems soon.
“Jack?”
He twisted, almost ran, nearly fell to his knees and begged her to allow him to stay.
Which contravened at least ten of his rules. If not all of them.
