Page 42 of The Pleasure in Persuasion

Lily’s lips parted, partly to reply but mostly out of pure, paralyzing shock.

A young woman in love?

She was willing to admit she was smitten with Frederick, but...love?

No. No. She could not be in love with him. Loving him would be far too complicated, far too stupid, and she was too responsible to have allowed that to happen.

For heaven’s sake, he was leaving soon. What kind of fool would she be if she fell for a man she knew would leave her?

“I cannot claim to know Mr. Darrington’s heart as well as yours,” Gran said softly, “but anyone can see he cares for you. Has he talked to you? Has he declared his intentions?”

Lily swept past her and began tidying the already-tidy desk, exorcising her agitation with actions instead of words. “Of course he hasn’t,” she said evenly. “And I don’t want him to. Nothing has changed, Gran. I have no wish to marry.”

It was a lie, of course, and they both knew it. She wasn’t ready to admit it, though, not to her grandmother and not to herself.

But neither could she deny it.

Frederick entered his bedchamber that evening, bone-tired, with aching shoulders, throbbing feet and a blister the size of a pea on his right thumb. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so satisfied.

Easing into the Chesterfield armchair before the fire crackling cozily in the hearth, he set about removing his boots, eager for a long, hot bath.

Physical labor was good for a man’s soul; he was convinced of it. He enjoyed the work, and the way it made him feel at the end of the day—like he’d accomplished something. Like he’d done some good.

Of course, any day was a good day with Lily close by. She was good for his soul, too. She made everything better, just by being there, and he couldn’t seem to get enough of her eloquent, incandescent eyes or the sly smiles and sardonic remarks that continually kept him on his toes.

He was beginning to suspect he might be addicted to her.

Kicking off his second boot, Frederick sat back in his chair and stretched his legs out toward the fire just as a knock sounded at the door.

Rather than leave the comfort of his chair, he called out for the visitor to enter.

The door opened and his sister’s voice followed. “Freddy?”

“Over here, Pen.” He raised an arm above his head. “I’m not late for dinner, am I?”

“No, no,” Penelope said, over the soft click of the door shutting closed. “Dinner isn’t for another hour. I just thought I’d ask about your day and find out what has put you in such a cheerful mood.”

She joined him at the fire, dropping onto the chair beside his, and Frederick turned his head to look at her.

“What makes you think I’m in a cheerful mood?”

He was, of course, but why should she know that?

Penelope met his gaze and smiled. “I could hear you whistling from the other end of the corridor.”

“Ah.” His cheeks warmed. Had he been whistling? Christ, he hadn’t even noticed.

“Well?” his sister prodded with undisguised curiosity. “Did something good happen to you today?”

Lily’s teasing eyes and kiss-plumped lips flashed through his mind, but that particular something good was none of his sister’s business. She would have to settle for half the truth.

“It was a good day,” he said. “I spent most of it swinging a hammer.” He stuck out his thumb to show off his new blister, smiling like a young lad who’d just caught his first trout.

Pen arched a single brow, eyeing his thumb with something akin to disbelief. “A...hammer.”

He nodded. “There were some repairs to be done in the barn. Broken fencing and rotting shutters. Nothing significant.”

Penelope blinked at him. “I had no idea you knew how to use a hammer.”