“Unusual ponies,” he murmured, turning and scrutinising the chunky little things.
A delicate cough left her reaction unclear. Had he scared her? Or pleased her? He wasn’t sure he sought the answer.
In the study, Sir Jago had mentioned her continued struggle, how in trying situations a tightening in her throat still caused her voice to fail. He didn’t wish to be the reason for such distress.
She straightened ash-grey skirts, a flush hinting at her discomposure. “Goonhilly ponies,” she pronounced, husky but firm. “As packhorses they are useful on this land which is often rutted or claggy. Strong but light of limb, they have an affectionate and obliging temperament.”
“Must be tough buggers to stay out here all weathers.”
An amused grin spread across her features, eyes competing with the sky for splendour. “Yes, one can’t mind a little mud and salt spray to live in Cornwall. This current dry spell is unusual.”
Indeed, the grassland spread before them like a sun-singed mat, and a shimmer of heat lay above, seeming for all the world as though a coverlet one could fall into.
A desolate, barren place and yet it held a rough beauty he’d never encountered before. Flowers he had no name for cowered beneath prickly stuff and wind-stunted trees huddled together in the distance like wallflowers at a ball.
It all caused him to feel slightly despondent, or maybe it had been the earlier mention of Vincent. He’d thought to witter on as he usually did, asking innocent questions before delving deeper, but instead it had been he who had revealed a sorrow.
“I couldn’t live in the countryside – such silence would drive me to Bedlam.”
“And I couldn’t live in the city – such noise would silence me.”
They stood gazing into the endless distance and Jack was aware of something…lost, but he wasn’t sure what, only that a sadness lingered.
He shook it off – bloody ridiculous.
It must be this place – not natural all this emptiness, and the swelter didn’t help.
The playful gelding nudged his shoulder and so he pulled off his gloves, searching for the crab apple he’d picked.
Miss Penrose released a soft gasp and he glanced down.
Ah.
Scoring the back of his left hand was a wound courtesy of a knife fight with a villain who’d turned his coat to France, now safely locked up and bleating like a sheep.
The resulting scar was a little inflamed from the leather seam of his glove, a stark contrast to the rest of his unblemished skin and obviously a little too authentic for delicate maidens.
“Why are you here, Lord Winterbourne?” she asked, that rasp back in her voice.
Jowlik gobbled the sour apple in one bite, and Jack tugged at his throttling cravat.
“I am here for knowledge.” Dreading the next question, he sought a change of subject. “Is Captain Lynch courting you?”
Where had that come from? And he silently cursed. Caused him to sound…jealous.
“Well, he’s not asked Father officially but he…gives me presents and so forth.”
“He didn’t attend the assembly ball.”
“The captain does not enjoy crowded events. He prefers more reserved pursuits.”
“You have much in common then.”
Tamsyn ached to scream her denial. That she used to love dancing, singing and sheer life. That he had her all wrong. Yes, she disliked the city, but it was the smells, the lack of green and crammed rush which wore her down.
He’d rendered her dull. Dull and grey and tedious.
Is this what she had become? Hiding away in the shadows, not living.
