Page 31 of Miss Devon’s Choice

“It is nearly time for luncheon,” he said. “The servants were going to come looking for you, but since a footman saw you enter the garden, I offered to try first.”

“Oh dear.” Rebecca noted the position of the sun. Blast. It was more than halfway across the sky. She bit her bottom lip. “I’m afraid I get rather caught up when I’m reading.” Her aunt would find fault with her lack of care in minding the time, her bonnet, and in forcing someone to search her out.

“This is a regular occurrence?” he asked, his tone lighter, almost amused. There was nothing disapproving in his look or words.

“I’m afraid so,” she admitted. “And as I’ve promised to be honest with you, I must be perfectly blunt. I have been late to many a social engagement when I have a new book in my hands.” She offered him the slightest of smiles. “It is one of my failings.”

Astonishingly, Christian Hundley lowered himself to the ground before her. “I’ve been known to put off responsibilities for the time it took to finish reading something of interest. May I see?” He held his hand out to her, his gaze steady.

She clasped the book tighter, it’s gently worn cover warm in her grasp. It was second-hand, with a few damaged pages, purchased at a book seller at a very small cost. Yet it remained precious to her.

She’d once handed her aunt a novel when asked what she was reading. Aunt Jacqueline had taken one look at the title, declared it rubbish, and dropped it in the hearth.

Surely, Christian couldn’t be that cruel. Though she didn’t know him well, he’d come to her rescue in the music room. He’d played with his dog within her sight. The man had a kind heart, she was convinced.

Finally, she closed the covers of the novel and handed it to him. Their fingers brushed when he took hold of the spine.

Did he feel the spark between them? Did he, too, experience the tingling sensation now skittering up her arm? The awareness almost made her shiver. Only her concern for the fate of her book kept her body still. She watched him, saw his lips move as he read the title page. Then he turned to the first page, and he began to read aloud.

“‘…But there certainly are not so many men of large fortune in the world as there are pretty women to deserve them…’” His words lilted through the whole of the introduction to the three sisters who would become Lady Bertram, Mrs. Norris, and Mrs. Price.

His deep, strong voice gave the words richness; he read well, his inflections perfect. Was this what the author had in mind when she made Henry Crawford read aloud in the story? If so, Rebecca understood Fanny Price’s admiration. She’d heard other gentlemen read, of course, and some with real feeling. But this was different. As the only audience to Christian’s words, they wrapped around her differently. And he continued as though there was nothing extraordinary about it.

His voice is beautiful. She leaned forward, refusing to let even one syllable be lost to the air. Her rapt attention settled on his lips as he spoke, watching as each word was formed. She studied the scar for a moment, noting how it didn’t hinder his ability in the slightest.

No hint of the Italian tongue in his words. Ten years in Italy and no purring consonants, nothing that could possibly give him away. It was a shame. She’d heard beautiful accents a handful of times in her life. She loved Italian. Or at least, she thought she did. She’d heard snatches of Italian operas, and poetry recitations, through the years. How must it sound when he spoke it?

He stopped at the end of the page and then turned it, reading on silently.

“Don’t stop,” she said, without thinking. His eyes raised from the page slowly, meeting hers. Warmth rushed through her body, but most of it settled upon her neck and in her cheeks. Rebecca hastily lowered her eyes to the grass between them. “But of course, you must. We will be late to the picnic.”

She pushed herself upward, then bent again to gather her things, moving in flustered haste. Christian remained seated, her book in his hands, and she felt his eyes on her. She hadn’t meant to speak. But when he stopped reading, all she’d wanted was more. He must think her foolish. Or too bold.

Composing herself as she straightened, bonnet and journal in hand, she reached out for Mansfield Park.

Christian regarded her closely, his head tilted to one side. She knew her cheeks were blazing red. If only he’d show an interest in looking at her when she wasn’t busy completely humiliating herself.

He rose to his feet, unfolding to his impressive height, the book still in his large hands. She swallowed, noting his nearness, again aware of just how striking a figure he was. Nothing about his stance was remotely threatening, but she sensed a power in his person she couldn’t say she’d noticed in another man. Not ever.

“Is it as entertaining as Pride and Prejudice?”

Rebecca’s jaw fully dropped, without her permission. “Have you read that novel?”

“A year or more ago,” he admitted, shrugging. “I won’t say it’s the best work I’ve read. I much prefer Waverly.”

“Scott’s novel,” she said, a trifle breathlessly. Hearing her own voice, Rebecca hastily cleared her throat and tried to compose herself. “I enjoyed that one, too. But this woman’s novels, they are different. They aren’t meant to be adventures. They’re a reflection of our life here, in England. They make me think on things differently, for all that the settings are familiar.”

“Hm.” He held the book out to her. “I imagine the heroines appeal to you?”

She took her book back, disappointed he held the edge in such a way that their fingers would not come in contact again. “They do. Even though they are women, they find a great deal of freedom in their situations. They make choices that I might be afraid to make.”

His eyebrows raised and he raised his hand as if to brush it through his hair but stopped and dropped it back to his side. “You don’t see yourself as one of them?”

Rebecca laughed. “I would like to be so bold and intelligent as they are. But no. I am not a heroine in a novel. I am only Rebecca Devon.” She curtsied, a touch of humor in the movement.

“And Rebecca Devon is late to luncheon. As is Christian Hundley, I’m afraid.” He held his arm out to her. “I understand it will be near the lake. Shall we be on our way?”

Rebecca took his arm happily enough, but she couldn’t help regretting that they must join the others. Conversing with him was proving to be an excellent diversion. They’d only made it a few steps before she stopped, forcing him to do the same.