Page 74 of Miss Ashbury and the Anatomy of Mending a Heart

“I thought she was very kind.”

Of course she didn’t have the courage to ask the question she really wanted to, so she’d come at the subject sideways. Internally, she shook her head at herself. Even after they’d resolved their misunderstanding the day before, Vera desperately wanted to know if Stephen had noticed how exceptionally pretty Dahlia was. She was the type of lady a man would look at and think, she’d make a fine baroness.

“She was pleasant enough, but I thought you’d met her before.”

“Well, yes. I have.” Vera bothered the trim on the edge of her cloak and avoided his eyes.

“If your opinion of the lady is set, it hardly matters what I think of her.” He stretched his long legs into the space between them, crossed them at the ankles, and folded his arms over his chest.

Vera recognized the posture—it meant he was thinking of having a little nap. On the tail of the thought was the realization that she knew him well enough to recognize his habits.

“I was making conversation, is all. It’s what people do on carriage journeys.”

His eyes were already closed; he arched an eyebrow. “More small talk? No, thank you. I’ve already had quite enough after that dinner the other night.”

There it was—he didn’t think of Vera as a regular young lady. Why would he? He’d made the effort to be pleasant over dinner for the people he didn’t know well, but now he and Vera were alone and he’d rather not speak at all.

Vera set her features into a mulish expression. “Very well—we may be silent. You know, I’ve never known a man your age to sleep quite as much as you do. Perhaps it’s you who should call a physician.”

Stephen cracked an eye. “Excuse me?”

“You sleep more than my Great Uncle Bertrand used to, and he was nigh on eighty before he passed. Bumbling Bertie, my brothers used to call him, behind his back.”

Both Stephen’s eyes were open now and fixed upon her, but Vera pretended not to notice.

She looked out the window instead. “He used to sit in front of the fire all day and night, with a little knitted blanket tucked over his knees.”

“As a physician, I learned quickly to get sleep wherever I can.”

“Have you ever noticed that whenever someone points out a quirk of your personality, you blame it on being a physician?” she said archly.

He stared at her; she couldn’t read his expression. It wasn’t energetic enough to be called exasperation, but it might be a duller distant cousin of the emotion.

She continued, “Bertie blamed all his quirks on his age. He used to sit just like you’re doing now. Perhaps I will knit you a blanket to tuck over your knees.”

Stephen closed his eyes and settled further down against the seat. “A knitted blanket would be lovely. I’d like it in green, if you don’t mind.”

“Whatever you like, Bertie.”

* * *

There had been a new sense of ease between Vera and Stephen the last few days. It was as if by settling their strange misunderstanding, the final piece of their friendship had been slotted properly into place. She felt more comfortable in his presence than she ever had before.

Vera had never experienced that with an unmarried man before—it was a novelty. With every other man of her acquaintance, she’d sorted them into two distinct categories—attached, and therefore easy to be around—or unattached. The unattached ones were difficult, as Vera was always aware of the fact that they were options for marriage, and she knew that they were aware of it, too.

Vera never wanted single men to feel as if she might have ulterior motives for speaking with them—as if she might be trying to coax them into matrimony. She’d once overheard the Marquess of Salisbury liken the feeling to a fox being pursued by hounds. Vera never wanted to act like a dog. Yet a distinctly canine growl threatened to build in her chest when she lingered on thoughts of Dahlia and Stephen too long.

Though she now understood that the man had been thinking of the amuse-bouche that evening at dinner—thank goodness—there was no mistaking the interest that had lit the young lady’s eyes when she’d looked at the baron.

The worst part was that Vera couldn’t blame her. Stephen was intelligent, handsome, and, once you got past the exterior gruffness, very kind. He cared for his family, his estate, and those who depended upon him for their well-being. He was titled, eligible, and possessed a remarkably fine set of teeth.

Miss Dahlia Warrington could do far worse. Vera nibbled her bottom lip with her teeth, concerned at the emotions roiling in her stomach. Truth was, if Dahlia cast her interested glance upon Stephen, she was sure to succeed. The only reason the man hadn’t noticed her properly the night of the dinner party was because he’d been thinking of roast beef.

Typical of him, perhaps, but Vera could hardly expect his distraction to continue. Not when Dahlia was so pretty, so charming. Not when they’d surely meet again. So Vera was relieved when an invitation did arrive and it was only for her.

Though it was Candace who’d invited Vera, the tea party was held in a windowed, second-story room at Devon Manor.

“My husband has become quite insufferable,” Adelaide said, easing herself slowly into a chair. Her tone and her smile negated any sting in her words. “He won’t let me out of the house. In fact, he’s probably lingering just outside of hearing distance as we speak.”