The Short and Fascinating Tale of Angelina Whitcombe Read Online Free PDF Page B

suppose,” she met his eyes for an instant before he looked back into the basket. “Or until I wear out my welcome.”
    â€œAh.” He was busy eating, as if, as he finished the sandwich and reached for more food, he were barely attending what she was saying, but she had the sense he heard everything, that he had thoughts, opinions.
    When would he voice them?
    Would he voice them?
    â€œAt some point,” she continued, to break up the growing silence, “I’ll return to the theater. I’ll return to London.”
    He put down a drumstick, licked his fingers. “For now, you want to hide, lick your wounds. Gain strength.”
    Her breath caught.
    The air felt a little thick, the air a bit too dusty and stinging her eyes.
    â€œI wouldn’t want to stop you from finishing your drawings of the castle. Someone should draw it for posterity, after all.”
    The invitation was clear and her chest ached a bit. He thought her wounded, in need of a rescuer. The lovely man was playing his own, taciturn, version of a knight on a white horse.
    Which was romantic and sweet.
    While she was there under false pretenses.
    S he wasn’t speaking. Perhaps he’d been too blunt. Perhaps she preferred to pretend she had everything under control, that she wasn’t devastated at having to leave her life in London. That a strange sojourn in the north of Yorkshire in one of the coldest years in recent history was exactly how she had intended to spend the height of the London season.
    Certainly, why should she admit her fears to him? A certain kinship might be there, but they were strangers.
    He needed to lighten the mood.
    â€œNor would I stop you from picnicking on the ground.”
    She laughed. There, that was better. He liked the sound of her laughter. It was rich and warm and made him want to taste it. Taste her.
    Not that he would take advantage of her, despite her sexual invitation of the day before. She expected men to desire her, to use desire and coitus as currency.
    â€œSo easily, you could have all the comforts you wish,” she teased, shifting her weight, moving her feet to her other side. He caught a glimpse of stocking-clad calves above her half boots. Shapely calves. Bare, they would be even shapelier. “I’m certain that at the manor, meals aren’t served on a blanket over hard stone.”
    It was a ridiculous image, this strange picnic transposed to the inside the dining room of the manor house. But there, the blanket would be a thick woolen rug over the polished wood floor, and Angelina’s blond hair would be perfectly framed by the rich fabrics and textures.
    â€œIf they were, perhaps I’d have stayed.”
    â€œTruly though, what of the rest of your estate? I thought landowners had duties . . .”
    Duties. Like continuing to fight for one’s country even after one had lost faith.
    He studiously picked an apple out of the basket and bit into it. His loud crunching punctuated the silence.
    During the first days home he had sat down at the large oak desk that had once been his father’s, consulted with his mother, the steward and tenants. Pored over ledgers and accounts. Exchanged letters with their banker in York.
    â€œIt was kept well in my absence,” he said finally. “There is little that requires my attention. Some men hunt, or ride, or spend their days in study of natural history. This”—he gestured to the room around them—“is how I choose to spend my time.”
    He wiped his fingers on a napkin. Looked toward the high windows to assess the quality of light outside. Perhaps half an hour had passed since he’d first sat down. There were a few more hours of daylight in which to work.
    â€œAnd as for my work, I’d best return to it. Please feel free to stay, come and go as you please.” He repeated the invitation though he half wished she’d forget he ever made it, would decide she’d