Page 74 of The Winter Companion

Her mouth went dry. Neville was reading Tennyson? And not only Tennyson, but the very volume that contained Sir Galahad?

She reached to touch the book, only to draw her hand back. She hadn’t read poetry in four years. Not since the scandal in Hertfordshire. No one had expressly forbidden her from doing so. Not Mama, and certainly not Simon. But both of them had implied it was a contributing factor to her shame. And she’d known it to be true. Poetry, especially the sort which rhapsodized about gallant knights and fair damsels, had only served to exacerbate her tendency toward romantic daydreams.

And now the pleasure she’d once felt in reading Tennyson or Wordsworth was forever tainted. How could she enjoy any of it when all it did was serve to remind her of her own humiliation?

She returned to her chair by the fire, an ache settling into her heart. She was resolved to think about things logically. To focus on reality, not romance. Even so, the idea that Neville was reading the poetry she’d once loved so dearly moved her deeply. It was as if he was seeking to know her. To discover who she really was.

And she wished…

Oh, but she wished things could have been different. That she had met him before, when she was younger, and life was full of possibility.

Which was a grim way of thinking of things.

Her life wasn’t over. She had a plan. A vision for her future, as an educated lady. A sensible secretary to her brother, dealing with lists and ledgers, and cataloguing quantifiable facts.

And that was precisely the reason she must go to Cambridge. She couldn’t permit her brother to jeopardize his standing there. Not when her own life depended so much on his. Without Simon, she had nothing to look forward to, save a dreary future as a companion.

A floorboard creaked outside the door.

Clara turned sharply at the noise. Her eyes widened.

Neville entered the room, coat in hand, looking very much like he’d fallen into a slurry. His shirtsleeves were wet, and his waistcoat and trousers were streaked with mud.

She stood in alarm. “You haven’t been hurt?”

“No. This is what happens when you…when you sponge a wild p-pony who’s rolled in the mud.” His mouth hitched in a rueful half smile. “She’s clean now.”

“And you’re wet through.”

He glanced down at his clothing. “I’ll dry.”

“Nonsense. You need to change into a fresh shirt. And I need to go. It’s past time I—”

“Don’t go.” He came further into the room, his expression losing all trace of humor. “I d-don’t mind it.”

“I mind it for you.” She heaved a breath. “Do change into a dry shirt. I’ll…I’ll turn my back.”

A flush crept up his neck. For a moment it looked as though he’d rebuff her offer. But he didn’t say anything. He only gave a stiff nod.

Clara turned away, staring fixedly at the fire. She was aware of every sound and movement behind her. The click of the wardrobe door opening. The rustle of fabric as he removed his waistcoat and stripped his linen shirt off over his head. She closed her eyes, willing herself not to blush.

“Are you warm enough?” he asked.

“Yes, thank you.” Her voice was high-pitched with nerves. She brought it back to a normal level. “I’ve been quite comfortable here in front of the fire.”

“Has your dress dried?”

“Yes.”

He came to join her at the fireplace, garbed in a clean shirt and black woolen waistcoat. His trousers were still muddy. He hadn’t changed them, thank heaven. It would have been doubly embarrassing if he had. The very thought of it! As if it wasn’t already awkward enough between them.

“Neville,” she began.

He motioned for her to sit.

She shook her head. “I’m too restless.” Arms folded, she walked to the window, putting some much-needed space between them. She was conscious of him watching her from his place in front of the fire. “Why are you reading Tennyson?”

The question escaped before she could stop it. She’d have given anything to call it back again.