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“Unless it’s keeping you from discovering new things.” She held his gaze as she took a sip of her drink and set the glass down again. Her fingers settled against his. “Let me convince you.”
“That won’t be easy.”
“No?”
“It’s human nature to be skeptical. We doubt what we don’t understand, what lacks a rational explanation, until we know it doesn’t pose a threat.”
She traced one fingertip along the back of his hand, soft enough to be an accident, deliberate enough that he knew it wasn’t. “Survival shouldn’t be our objective. We’re not animals.”
He was having some very animalistic thoughts at the moment. This woman had him driving his fingers into his thigh to keep from reaching for her. “Skepticism is rooted in common sense, which separates us from animals.”
Her mouth twisted briefly. “Skepticism is merely fear wearing a more respectable coat.” She brushed an invisible piece of dust from the lapel of his jacket, but let her hand linger on his chest. Heat saturated the heavy wool as though she’d cut directly through the fabric and pressed her palm to his skin. “It gives a man permission to refuse to believe in anything while considering themselves clever.”
“Are only men susceptible to skepticism?”
Her hand fell to her lap, and he wanted to snatch it up and press it to his chest again. “Only men would confuse it for wisdom.”
“That’s a rather damning assessment of half of England.”
“Only the boring half. The interesting half believes in things they can’t prove.” She was close enough, somehow, that his knee bumped against hers. “Love, luck. Spirits.”
“All things that cannot be proven.” He needed no proof that love wasn’t real, at least for him. “I’d rather be a skeptic than a fool.”
“Belief isn’t about being fooled. It’s about being brave enough to want something before you’re certain it’s safe to want it.”
He certainly wanted something, though he knew it wasn’t safe.
He laid his palm over hers. “Would you have me believe in something tonight?”
Her cheeks bloomed pink, and he worried he’d gone too far. Perhaps the stress of the journey had addled his mind. Not to mention the years since he’d bedded a woman.
She turned her hand so her fingers laced with his, and her tongue flicked out to wet her lower lip. Maybe his instincts hadn’t been amiss.
After a long moment, she spoke again. “Why are you in Ashveil, Mr. Cavendish? This is a remote village, and men like you don’t merely pass through without a purpose.”
“Now who is being skeptical?” His heart beat faster. He didn’t want to admit he’d come to Ashveil with the express purpose of destroying its most famous resident. He wouldn’t be terribly popular with the locals. “I’m visiting an old friend from my university days.”
“Is that so?” The corner of her mouth quirked up. “Mr. Cavendish, are you certain you aren’t going to the Manor? Maybe to test your skepticism?”
His stomach plummeted to the warped floorboards. “Of course not. I wouldn’t be caught dead in such a place.”
She laughed aloud. “Careful now. This town is already flush with spirits. We don’t need any more.”
He smiled, dragging his thumb against hers where they interlocked on the bar. These lingering glances and touches had lit a fire in his blood. After so much time in his self-imposed solitude, this woman was a beacon of light, of the joy he’d denied himself for years. And he wanted her.
“If I said I wished to spend more time here…” He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “With you, specifically. Would you find that foolish?”
She bit her lower lip, worried it for a moment before releasing it. “That depends. If you had a wife or children, it would be very foolish, Mr. Cavendish.”
“Skeptical again,” he said, but she leveled him with a stern look. “I have no wife, no children. And please call me Phineas.”
Something shifted in her expression—an excitement quickly masked. She was close enough now that he could count her lashes. “Phineas. Then it wouldn’t be foolish, no. And I’d like that, more time with you, I mean.”
He grinned. Was she nervous? He’d forgotten his own nerves over the course of their conversation, and her fingers curled around his. Perhaps only four inches separated his mouth and hers, and closing the distance would be the easiest thing he’d done all week.
An unseen clock rang the hour, and Phineas groaned aloud. Half-past seven.
Bridget’s lashes fluttered, but she didn’t retreat. “Somewhere you need to be?”
