He blinked, feeling as if the backs of his knees were again sticking to the chair.
He reminded himself she could not know how deeply he’d be wounded by such an accusation.
“Your presence could never be something I wish to escape.”
His raw, honest admission surprised him but earned him nothing greater than another supercilious lift of her right brow. Perhaps heshouldretreat.
Retreat and regroup. He focused on the cutlery. Live to fight another day.
“There are, however, some estate matters I should attend.”
“Estate matters?” she queried.
For the first time, she appeared genuinely interested in what he might have to say. Briefly, he imagined sharing his concerns over the anonymous letter, butno.
She was unhappy enough with him already. If she believed he couldn’t control unrest on his own estate, her frustration with him would only increase.
Best to take care of the situation on his own. “I’ve, ah, letters to write.”
“Then, by all means, go. I trust you will enjoy yourself.” She pursed her lips, as if holding something back.
He nodded once before rising.
“Or make yourself miserable…”
He cocked his head.
“…Repeated indulgence of miseryisa kind of joy, wouldn’t yousay?”
This time, there could be no mistaking her verbal dart’s poison.
“Cassandra?” he asked, unsure if he could be addressing the same woman he’d courted.
“I—I beg your pardon.” She dropped her gaze. “I spoke unkindly just then.”
“Perpetually miserable.” Absently, he rubbed his chest. “Doyou see me as someone who is perpetually miserable?”
She glanced up, startled. A pained expression flashed in her eyes. “I don’t know you. At present”—again, she wet her lips—“I’m not sure I know myself.”
“I’d like for you to know me,” he replied as gently as he could. Though he clearly had not yet learned to communicate well, instinct told him if he didn’t keep a steady, skilled hold of the reins during this run-away conversation, they’d both end up in a ditch. “And I’d like to know you.” Even now, even hurt, this was still true.
In her eyes, the smallest hint of hope lurked behind a great haze of suspicion. A hint would have to be enough, for now. She didn’t trust him at all.
Then again, why should she?
“Shall I expect you for tea, then?” she asked.
An olive branch?
“Certainly.” He folded his arms behind his back to prevent himself from reaching out. “Ifyou wish.”
“Yes, I wish,” she replied with the merest flash of a tentative smile. “Good day.”
“Good day.”
She rose, offered him an awkward curtsey and then turned away.
Everyone had called Cassandra the gentle one. The sweet one. The biddable one.
