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We both got out and looked at each other across the front of the car.
“Thank you for—”
“Do you want—”
We stopped.
“Go ahead,” Miles said, motioning for me to speak first.
“Oh, um, thank you. For the lift home. I appreciate it.” I wrapped my arms around my waist.
“You’re welcome.” He swallowed. “I was going to say… Do you want to come and check the greenhouses with me?”
“Can I go inside?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Seems unreasonable. Why would I check them if I can’t go inside?”
“Because I’m not done talking to you.”
“Wow. You’re normally done talking to me before the conversation has even started, so this is an interesting development.”
“You are hilarious.”
“Thank you. I try.” I fell into step beside him as we walked around the side of the house. “What do you want to talk about?”
“Our conversation. About classism.”
“Oh, goodie. I was hoping that would come up.”
“You couldn’t have put any more sarcasm into that sentence if you’d tried.”
“I disagree. I could have. I was trying to be polite.”
“Terrible job.”
“I know. I wasn’t trying terribly hard.”
Miles coughed, and I swear he did that to hide a laugh. “Anyway, I wanted to apologise for that, too.”
Had I stepped into a parallel universe? Was the church a portal to another dimension? That was the only explanation for this.
“You are right. Britain—especially England—is a classist society and you could argue it always has been. People care far more about what class you were born into than they do where you born, what colour your skin is, or what your sexuality is.” Miles unlatched the gate into the private gardens and held it open for me to pass through, which I did. “Classism is usually shown as a prejudice, where the upper classes judge the lower ones. Working class people don’t like to think they judge those above them, but obviously, we do.”
I eyed him but kept walking in silence.
“And I judged you,” he said after a moment. “Because of who you are, where you live, and the society you were born into. And I shouldn’t have done that.”
“You’d be surprised how used to that I am.”
“But you shouldn’t be.” Miles stopped and looked down at me, his blue eyes earnest. “You didn’t judge me when you met me. You’ve done nothing but be nice to me and try to make me feel welcome, even seeking me out to ask for my advice for your course, and I’ve been incredibly rude and unkind to you ever since I started, all because I judged you because you’re Lady Gabriella Hastings and your father is a Duke. My own prejudice against you showed, and I shouldn’t have let it. If I’d stopped for a second to speak to you and get to know you, I wouldn’t have judged you so harshly. And I am wholeheartedly sorry for the way I’ve treated you—for judging you, ignoring you, and being as dreadful as I have been to you.”
I looked down at the gravel path and moved my foot, digging a small hole in the tiny stones until I saw dirt. Oops. “Thank you. I appreciate that.” I paused, still not looking up. “And for what it’s worth, I know I can be irritating, and maybe if I’d told you the truth about my course, you might have understood why I was asking all the questions.”
“It doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t have been so rude to you. You’ve never treated me badly. You literally winched me out of flood water with a twisted ankle while I was being a stubborn arsehole about it.”
“Don’t sweat that.” I peered up with a small smile. “It gave me a chance to be a righteous bitch, and I do enjoy being right.”
Miles cleared his throat and coughed into his hand.
He was so trying not to smile.
“Well, I’m glad that made you feel better.” He met my eyes. “I don’t think you’re a horrible person, Gabriella. Nor do I dislike you. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. I think you’re a wonderful person, and I like you very much.”
Oh.
Oh.
I swallowed. “You do?”
“Yes.” Miles hesitated. “And I would like it if we could be friends.”
I fought back a smile as something flipped in my stomach. “I would like that.”
“Good.” He cleared his throat again. “And if you need help with your project, I’d be happy to help you. To make up for how I’ve treated you.”
“That might be cheating, don’t you think?” I raised an eyebrow.
“I suppose it might be considered cheating.”
“If you really want to make it up to me, you can let me play in your greenhouse for an hour.”
“Absolutely not. That’s a sacred space.”
“Oh, my God!” I threw my arms out. “What does a girl have to do to go in your greenhouse? Do they have to be your mother? Your sister? Your girlfriend? I just want to go in there! I want to see your growing process! Your propagation process! I’m not asking to move into your spare bloody bedroom!”
