He stared at her for a long moment, a look in his dark hazel eyes she’d never seen before.
Just as she was about to squirm, the look disappeared from his eyes and the edges of his mouth curled in a slight smile.
“Did your father tell you this morning?” He took a bite of the apple, the juice of it dripping down his chin that he wiped away with the back of his hand.
Her lips pulled back into a line that she hoped looked like a smile. Wes had nothing to do with this decision and she didn’t want to offend him. As short and uncouth as he was, there was something about him she couldn’t quite describe that she had always liked. “The betrothal? He did. But you will not like me. I am gangly, uncoordinated.”
He took a bite, his hazel eyes that had recently started to darken travelling down her long bare arms. She should have been out with a parasol but wasn’t and the sun was already tingeing the color of her skin. She resisted the urge to wrap her arms around her middle, to cover them from his gaze.
His look lifted to her face. “What if I like gangly and uncoordinated?”
“And I’m far taller than you.”
He shrugged. “You won’t be.”
“Because you will somehow grow? I’ve been taller than you since we first met.”
“Yes, but that will be in the past soon enough. I’ll soar above you one of these days. No matter how tall you get, I will always be a shadow looming over you.”
She laughed. If confidence were height, Wes would be a giant. “So the betrothal does not upset you?”
“The betrothal?” He shook his head. “No. How it will get in the way of going off to war is what I worry about.” He ruefully shook his head. “But they’ll be done with the whole business of Bony before I get to him.”
“Why would you want to go to war?”
“Why not?” The grin on his face was almost contagious. Almost.
“Death.”
“Glory.”
“Amputations.”
“Sacrifice.”
“Fear.”
“Courage.”
“Fine.” She fluttered her hand in between them. “Go to war. I shall wave a kerchief in your direction as you march off to death.”
His eyebrows lifted. “And not shed a tear?”
“Not a one.”
“I would like a tear from you, Laney. One.”
Her head cocked to the side, a smile finally cracking her face. “I don’t produce tears for fools. And you, my future husband, may just be a fool.”
{ Chapter 1 }
Gruggin Manor, May 1826
Yorkshire, England
Laney stood outside the front of Gruggin Manor, the perfectly folded white handkerchief clutched in her hand. There, just in case.
Though she didn’t think it likely.