Page 60 of The Language of Love

Ha! Smitten.

But the truth was that Henry couldn’t pull his gaze from her.

Her ancient walking costume—the same one she’d worn the last time—appeared almost magical as the light from the trees filtered down from far overhead, dappling her with sunlight.

She dropped her arms and turned to him, a look of regret on her expressive face. “I’m sorry, Henry, but I probably need to go back now.”

He nodded, even though he didn’t want to take her back yet. He wasn’t sure he wanted to take her back, ever.

The uncharacteristic thought sent a bolt of terror straight to his core. He hated wanting to be around another person so much. Only a fool put their happiness in somebody else’s hands, where they could rend and shred and destroy so easily.

Henry gritted his teeth against his desire, but he couldn’t stop wanting her. He found Annis utterly and completely enchanting. Yes—that was the word for it: she had enchanted him.

They walked to where he’d unhitched the horses to let them graze. “I’m sorry we didn’t get to see the folly,” she said.

“We should come back.”

“The owner wouldn’t mind?”

Henry smiled. “No, he told me to make myself at home.”

“Who does it belong to?” she asked as he harnessed the frisky pair.

“He’s just a commoner, I doubt you’d know him.”

“I do not choose the people I like based on their lineage or bank account, Henry.”

“Obviously, or you wouldn’t be here today.”

Her face flushed a becoming rosy pink, and she lowered her eyes in a shy, almost submissive, fashion that sent a pulse of heat to his groin.

Henry took her hand. “Up you go,” he said, turning his body so that she couldn’t see the increasingly obvious evidence of his arousal. “I’m going to hand you the reins, Annis—can you hold them while I get in?”

“Oh, yes. I used to drive our gig into town.”

Henry smirked at her comparison of an old nag and gig with his phaeton and high-steppers.

As she took the ribbons in her small hands, he couldn’t help noticing that her gloves were as threadbare and worn as the rest of her clothing. There was a tiny hole in the right palm she must have mended. It was skillfully stitched but visible, all the same.

Something about her careful mending made him so angry that his vision blurred. How dare her shrew of an aunt and neglectful uncle dress themselves like kings and queens and keep her in rags?

His own fury rocked him to his foundation. Why the devil did he care so much?

Henry struggled to gain control of the emotions roiling in his gut, wrenching his gaze up from her old glove and meeting her glorious blue eyes.

“Is anything wrong, Henry?”

He forced a smile. “No, nothing is wrong.”

Her own smile was uncertain, telling him how poorly he was hiding his inner turmoil.

They were both quiet as they rode back to town.

Henry didn’t know what kept her mind occupied, but he couldn’t stop thinking about Annis Bowman and his unprecedented feelings for her.

Feelings.

Christ. Even the word made him want to smash things.