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‘Yes. Yes, Mr Linton. That was the only reason.’
‘I see. Well, let me tell you, you didn’t do a very good job. Pretending to be in love, I mean. I could see right through you!’
He turned then and looked at me.
‘Could you indeed? Can you?’
‘Yes!’ I flushed. ‘Of course I could! It was obvious you weren’t interested. She’s such a boring, superficial creature.’
‘Oh really? Some men might find her quite charming.’
‘Nonsense! Did you hear her conversations at the ball? All she talked about was dresses and dancing and the right way to hold fans! She has nothing in her head but stale air and dead flies!’
Mr Ambrose shrugged.
‘What of it? Some men prefer their brides unintelligent. After all, women are supposed to do housework and little else. You do not need much intelligence for that.’
‘Only stupid men would want stupid wives! Marriage is supposed to be a union between two equals who love and support each other, not a master-slave relationship in which the man commands a docile woman.’
‘There’s something to be said for docile women.’ He leaned forward, spearing me with his dark gaze. ‘They don't argue with you, for one!’
‘And there’s something to be said for progressive men. They don't normally have such thick heads that women need to argue with them! They have learned to listen to what women have to say.’
‘I pity them thoroughly!’
Angrily, I turned my head away. He was impossible! Why I made all this effort to get accepted by him was becoming more and more of a mystery to me. He obviously would never learn to see me as more than a temporary annoyance.
Why was I doing this? Why was I in this coach? I could be going home right now, looking forward to another boring, safe day at the office tomorrow. Instead I was in this miserable little chaise with him, on my way to God only knew where, to deliberately put myself in danger. And for what? The acceptance of a man! Bah!
‘So… are you really?’
The question was out of my mouth before I knew it.
‘Am I what, Mr Linton?’
‘Interested in her. Romantically, I mean.’
I sneaked a look at him out of the corner of my eye. He, too, wasn’t looking directly at me. He was pretending to stare out of the window. But his dark pupils betrayed him. They were watching me out of the corner of his eye, just like mine were on him.
He said nothing.
Why the dickens did I ask that? Why would I even be interested in Mr Ambrose’s romantic life or, more likely, the lack of it? The man was as romantic as a block of wood! A very attractive block of wood, certainly, but still a block of wood! He wasn’t interested in anyone.
And still, the thought of him being in love with that Hamilton wench…!
I shook my head, trying to ignore the heat that was rising in my cheeks.
Still I had gotten no answer.
‘Well, Sir?’ I repeated my question. ‘Are you interested in her?’
This time, I hadn’t sounded angry. For some reason, my voice had been low, and softer than I had ever heard it.
Slowly, he began to turn towards me. His sea-coloured eyes met mine, and they seemed darker than usual, the colour of storm.
‘Not in her, no.’
What? What was that supposed to mean?
