Page 35 of Miss Devon’s Choice

“Your emotions make you weak.”

“Your mother died rather than live with the shame of such a son.”

“Your mother was an Italian peasant that tried to marry into the ton.”

The words flooded his mind, leaving a bitterness in his soul and a sour taste in his mouth. He spat his accusation at himself, forcing his hands through his hair. “Stupido!”

Rebecca sucked in a sharp breath. “I may not speak Italian,” she said fiercely, “but even I know that insult.”

He shook his head, dropping his hands. “Not you, Rebecca. Perdono.”

“Then who—?”

“Me.” He struck his chest with one balled fist. “And them. Everyone else.” He groaned and raised a hand to his brow. He had to stop talking. Had to stop feeling. How had she pulled down all his defenses in the space of a quarter hour? Christian needed to free himself of these emotions. He had to exorcise them out of his consciousness. Without another thought, he lifted two oars from their place on the wall and climbed into the docked boat.

“What are you—?”

He stripped his jacket off, dropping it into the bottom of the boat. He looked up to excuse himself, to dismiss her, to say something to make her leave.

Rebecca gaped at him, her cheeks blazing red. “What are you doing?” she asked. “Your jacket—”

The absurdity of the situation struck him, and he was weak. Displaying himself, his aching heart, so openly, didn’t help. He scoffed at her. “Here you speak of love, romance. Passion, even? Yet the sight of a man without his jacket is enough to scandalize you. The English are a ridiculous breed.” He reached for the rope.

“What a thing to say,” she spit out. “Calling me ridiculous?” Then she lifted her skirts and stepped into the rear of the boat, causing it to rock dangerously. He gripped the sides and counter-balanced her shifting weight, biting back more Italian.

“What are you doing?” he demanded.

“You cannot simply row away without me. We are in the middle of a conversation.”

“We are in the middle of an argument,” he said, glaring at her. “I must be excused.”

“And so must I. Now, cast off.” She folded her hands primly in her lap and raised her eyebrows at him. “I’m not moving from this spot.”

Frustration spilled from him in both languages, though he at least had the presence of mind not to say anything to upset her sensibilities further. He untied the rope and shoved the boat away from the dock, first with his hands, then using the oars. He had no choice but to face her, glancing over his shoulder to ensure their direction, then turning back to glare at her.

Rebecca sat like an Egyptian queen on a sailing barge, her calm expression compromised by the flame of indignation in her eyes. After several minutes of his rowing, she raised her eyebrows and turned to look back at the shore. They had gone the width of the lake quickly. When he followed her gaze, he saw the picnickers.

What must the party think of the abrupt decision to row across the lake? And surely anyone watching would realize the event must not have much to do with courtship, given his haste and the stiff posture of his passenger.

She turned back to him, her eyebrows lowering and her shoulders relaxing. “Feeling better yet?”

He glowered at her and rowed harder.

She sighed. “Christian, you need not explain things to me, but I do wish to understand.”

“Christian?” he asked, his movement stalling. He stared at her, uncertain if he’d heard correctly.

“You called me Rebecca a moment ago,” she said with a shrug. “We are engaged to be married. We are also alone, with you in your shirtsleeves, having an argument. I cannot think calling you Christian can be any more inappropriate than anything else that has happened in the last several minutes.” She regarded him steadily and released a sigh. “Tell me about your mother. Please.”

*

Perhaps she had crossed a line, but Rebecca would not take her question back. At first, the inclination to let him leave her while he rowed away had been strong. It would be easier to let him go, to end the conversation before it entered deeper waters.

Frankly, Rebecca was tired of pretending to be something she was not. Her aunt and her father had forcefully molded her into the perfect picture of an English miss, without regard to her personal desires. The horrid green dress she wore at that very moment bore testament to their success. She didn’t want to be their version of her. Not anymore. Not when she could taste a new sort of freedom. Not when she had the chance to be who she wished.

She may not have chosen Christian as her intended, but she had chosen to love him. To love him, she had to know him and understand him. She would accomplish neither of those things if she let him leave the moment he became upset. They had such a short time together before they wed, and moments like this one must count.

Besides, the hurt in his expression had been real. He may have voiced his pain with frustration, but the look in his eyes was familiar to her. It was the same emotion she had felt, though his was in greater measure, when he had offered comfort in the music room.