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Rufus hesitated but her chin was set firmly, her emotions in check.
“I don’t think he was special. Not to the world anyway. He was the middle son of a baronet, not very rich, not particularly important. Gregson tells me he was a bit bookish. A bit of a romantic. They met and fell in love and ran off together.”
“He sounds very different from my father.”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps that was why she fell in love with him. I didn’t know my father very well, he died while I was still a child, but he always seemed so-so distant. He had a collection of Egyptian artifacts. They were all sold, of course, with the house, after he died, but I wonder sometimes if my mother became just another acquisition. Something to look at and admire from a distance rather than to hold. She would have hated that.”
Rufus’s mouth quirked up. “Very perceptive of you, Averil.”
“What happened to . . .? You haven’t told me his name?”
“Percival Arnutt. He died. Shortly after your mother bolted. She was stranded, without a husband or a lover.”
Averil turned to the window and stared out, but he didn’t think she was seeing the passing scenery. “I wonder if she asked my father to take her back? He wouldn’t have. Once she left he removed all trace of her. He’d made a mistake and he didn’t want any reminders.”
“Yes. Percival’s family washed their hands of him, too. There was no one to take pity on her.”
“Or Rose.” Averil’s lip wobbled and she bit it. “So sad,” she said, turning back to him, and now the tears were obvious. One rolled down her cheek and she stopped it with her gloved finger, then another one slipped past. “I’m sorry. Whenever we’re together I seem to be crying.”
“Averil,” he muttered and reached to pull her into his arms. She resisted, her palms against his chest, holding him off, so he kissed her instead. Her lips opened in surprise and he took advantage of that, too. She tasted salty from her tears and that gave the moment an added poignancy. He didn’t think he’d ever kissed a weeping woman before.
She made a little sound and he kissed her again, caressing her lips with his, wondering if he should stop and not wanting to. If he married her—if she would have him, he reminded himself wryly—he could kiss her anytime. He found that the idea held great appeal to him.
She broke away and sat back, fussing with her clothing again, but her face was pink and her mouth pinker. Rufus wondered if he should apologize, but then he thought he’d be damned if he would say sorry for something they had both enjoyed so much.
The silence went on and, when Rufus felt he had let it go for long enough, he told her he had written to his land agent, to ask him to come to London and discuss the dower house property with herself and Dr. Simmons.
“It may turn out not to be suitable,” he added, “but it seems a shame to leave
it empty when it could be used for your good works.”
Averil gave him one of her clear looks. “Do you really mean that? Is that how you feel, truthfully? I ask because so many people find the whole issue of the women discomforting, and often blame the women themselves for their situation. I know they’re not perfect, and many of them are perfectly happy to go on as they are, but so many of them are desperate.”
Rufus frowned. “I don’t feel like that at all. I’ve seen plenty of degrading and dreadful sights in the East End. I think what you’re doing is a brave thing, Averil, because you know you won’t get much credit for it. You’re right, there are people who find the whole thing repugnant and are quick to change the subject.”
“Or make conditions when they offer to donate to the Home.”
He gave a brief laugh. “Like me, you mean? Wanting you there to show me about?”
“No, I . . . I didn’t mean that. I was glad to show you about.”
“You see, Averil, that’s what I like about you. You’re not afraid to say exactly what you think. Whatever the consequences.”
She frowned. “You make me sound very uncomfortable. I try not to be. I try to hold my tongue. But sometimes it just won’t be held.”
“Such honesty is rare. Don’t lose it.”
Rufus had a strong urge to reach out and kiss her again, and it took rather a lot of self-control to stop himself from doing it.
“Would you like to walk for a while?” he asked quickly, and before she could answer, called to his driver. Of course when he helped her out he remembered her injured knee.
“Perhaps we could sit instead,” he suggested, with a wry smile, holding out his arm for her to take.
Averil smiled. “I am quite recovered, thank you, my lord, and I would enjoy a walk.” She slipped her hand into his arm, her gloved fingertips resting on the sleeve of his jacket, and held him so lightly he hardly felt her. They walked a moment, and her head barely came up to the top of his shoulder, her fair hair beneath her bonnet threatening even now to tumble down from its pins.
He’d like to help it. He’d like to rake his fingers through it and then hold it as he kissed her mouth, tasting her with his tongue, his body pressed hard to hers so that he could feel every soft curve of her.
