She’d been studying his face. When he refocused on her, she quirked a brow. “What else would you like to know?”
Why you’re intent on pretending what’s building between us isn’t there.
He smiled easily. “You said your brother was at Oxford. Which college, and what did he read?”
Returning to her stitching, she answered readily.
When they’d exhausted that safe subject, daringly, he ventured, “You mentioned your advanced age—I take it you had at least one Season.” He couldn’t for the life of him understand why she was still unwed.
She took her time responding, but eventually said, “Actually, no. I was scheduled to have a London Season when I was nineteen, under the wing of my aunt, Lady Camberford, but a situation arose here that made my absence impossible, and subsequently, I discovered, much to my aunt’s dismay, that I didn’t really miss going to London.”
Clearly, the situation had been something major, but whatever it had been, Godfrey could only be grateful that she hadn’t arrived in the capital; not all his peers were blind.
But if she hadn’t been to London, her resistance to their attraction couldn’t be due to some adverse experience among the ton.
At that moment, Wally arrived with a tray on which resided a bowl of steaming broth.
Miss Hinckley—Ellie—smiled at Wally and, setting aside her mending, rose and waved him to the bed. To Godfrey, she said, “I’m going down for morning tea. I’ll leave you to your meal.”
“But you’ll come back?” Godfrey wanted to pursue his questions, but a little time to hone his approach would be helpful.
She smiled. “I’ll return in an hour. If, after the broth, you find yourself sleepy, getting some rest would be wise. The more subdued we can keep your fever, the faster you’ll recover.”
He summoned an appropriately grateful and reassuring smile and watched her leave and close the door. Then he looked at Wally and, after a second, lowered his gaze to the steaming bowl. “I take it there’s something in that that will make me nod off.”
“Very likely.” Wally set the tray across Godfrey’s lap. “I saw what went into it, and I’m sure it’ll be good for you. So like the lady said, if you want to get better, eat up.”
Godfrey picked up the spoon, wrinkled his nose, and reluctantly complied.
As he’d expected, the soup made his lids heavy. Surrendering, he let them fall.
When he raised them again, Ellie was back in the chair, stitching something else.
He stirred, and she looked up, then smiled and set aside her sewing. “You’re awake.” She rose and crossed to the bed. She laid a cool palm over his forehead, then her lashes flickered, and she frowned and removed her hand. “Your fever is still increasing, but at least it’s not so high as to be alarming.”
He wasn’t quick enough to catch her hand and keep her by the bed.
She returned to her chair, sat, and informed him, “Cook will send up another bowl of broth and perhaps some bread for luncheon.”
He tried to make his smile appreciative. “I’ll look forward to it.”
She met his gaze and arched a brow, but made no further comment.
“So where were we?” Before he’d succumbed to the soporific soup, he’d realized that, with her, his best approach to gaining enlightenment as to what hurdle stood in the way of further mutual exploration of their very definitely mutual attraction might well be to simply ask. “You told me you didn’t go to London, but you must have attended local assemblies and the like.” A young lady of her station wouldn’t have been allowed to hide herself away, not even in North Yorkshire.
She inclined her head. “Under the wings of the local grandes dames, I attended the assemblies in Harrogate for several years.”
“Well, then—you must have met and been wooed by countless local gentlemen.” So why wasn’t she married?
She glanced up, her gaze sharp, yet amused. “I did, and I was.”
Ah—now we’re getting to it. Boldly, he ventured, “I take it none of them came up to scratch.”
She looked down at her stitching. “If by that you mean to ask if any gentleman made me an offer, then several did. However, none of those smitten by my beaux yeux possessed much to recommend them to me.”
He debated, then asked, “Am I wrong in thinking that, out of those experiences, you’ve formed some view regarding eligible gentlemen—meaning those you would consider accepting?”
Her smile—what he glimpsed of it—held a sharper edge. “Indeed. Above all else, I learned to place no faith in a gentleman’s protestations, and that the more handsome and sophisticated a gentleman is, the less likely it will be that he deserves my trust.”
“Ah.” He waited, but she didn’t look up. “I see.”
He was no coxcomb, yet he was aware that he was lauded as one of the more handsome, as-yet-unmarried-and-exceedingly-eligible gentlemen in the ton.
He’d wanted to know what hurdle he—they—faced. Now, he knew.
He smiled with entirely genuine equanimity.
She glanced up, searched his face, and frowned.
Nothing loath, he asked, “Your sister’s eighteen. Will she be attending the assemblies this year? I would be interested in learning how you plan to counsel her regarding gentlemen suitors.”
But at that, she laughed. “You’ve yet to meet Maggie. Once you do, you’ll realize that, for her, no counseling will be required.”
He allowed his puzzlement to show, but she merely smiled, still amused, and offered nothing more.
Eventually, he asked, “Are you close, you and your siblings?”
Once again engrossed in her stitchery, she nodded. “My father, Harry, Maggie, and me—after Mama died, we grew closer.” She paused, then more quietly went on, “She was the center—the lynchpin—of our family, and when she was gone, we…learned to lean on each other.”
He strongly suspected that what she meant was that she had stepped into the central role, holding the others together. From what he’d learned from her, not just from her words but also from her tone—the clear affection she felt for father, brother, and sister—he owned himself eager to meet the others and confirm if their family truly was as he was imagining.
She glanced at him, curiosity in her eyes. “You lost your father. Didn’t you and your siblings and your mother grow closer after that?”
He grimaced and, for once, let his gaze drift from her face. “It wasn’t like that—didn’t happen like that—in my family. My mother was our father’s second wife, and she resented Ryder—our elder half brother, whom I mentioned before. While Mama was alive…in many ways, we were forced to go our separate ways. It was…” He hadn’t really thought of it before but… “Lonely.”
“Oh, I see.”
He looked up to see real compassion in her eyes, far more complex and soothing than mere pity. Regardless, he wouldn’t have accepted even that from anyone else, yet from her…
“Is your mother still alive?”
He shook his head. “After she died, Ryder and his wife—he was married by then—stepped in and drew us all together. As siblings, over recent years, we’ve been closer than we’ve ever been, thanks to Ryder and Mary.”