young girl and it was quite unnecessary, but even so, he had erred on the side of correctness. He had conversed pleasantly with her before they got caught up in the exchange of greetings and chitchat with acquaintances they met in the park, and he had been unfailingly charming. He had smiled without ceasing, as he had done the night before, but really it was a handsome smile, and it was far better than a scowl.
She did not find Mr. Thorne nearly as amiable a man. If Mr. Rochford hoped to marry her, as he very well might—he was, after all, about to become heir to an earldom and she would be a brilliant match for him—he had not so much as hinted that he intended to do so, just as though she were a commodity to be purchased at his will.
The seat of Mr. Thorne’s curricle was narrow enough that her shoulder or elbow or hip had constantly been nudging against him during the journey here as the vehicle swayed around bends or bounced over uneven patches of road that were all too numerous. But somehow she was far more aware of him now that they were walking side by side, not touching. Physically aware—of his height, of the breadth of his shoulders, of the muscular shapeliness of his long legs encased in tight pantaloons and Hessian boots, of his aura of masculinity, whatever that was supposed to mean. Good heavens, he was not the first handsome gentleman with whom she had ever walked. She could not recall being aware of any of those other men to the point of discomfort, almost suffocation. She had not been uncomfortable yesterday with Mr. Rochford, despite the admiration in his eyes whenever he looked at her and the speculative glances with which they had been generally regarded in Hyde Park.
She was markedly uncomfortable with Mr. Thorne.
No other man had ever told her he was going to marry her. No other man had ever asked her age or suggested that she kept her court about her as a sort of shield against taking any man’s courtship seriously. No other man had informed her that she was easy on the eyes. What a ghastly, vulgar expression! No other man had ever suggested that she had given up hope of finding the one man who would distinguish himself from the crowd. No other man . . .
Oh, bother. She was not enjoying these teeming thoughts one little bit. She was not enjoying his company either. She did not like him and resented her physical awareness of him.
They paused at the midpoint of the causeway to watch a couple of swans glide gracefully, leaving V-shaped ripples behind them, across one of the ponds.
“How do they move like that without making any apparent effort?” she mused aloud.
“All the effort goes on beneath the surface of the water,” he replied, “leaving the impression above of effortless grace.”
They had been virtually silent since leaving the curricle. So much for her promise to interrogate him. Or to interview him, to use his own word. As though she were seriously considering his . . . his what? He had not actually asked her to marry him, had he? Rather, he had told her he was going to. What an insufferable man. What on earth was she doing walking with him like this and gazing at the lake and talking about swans? Avery would have made short work of him long ago if he had heard any part of what Mr. Thorne had said to her.
She did not need Avery’s intervention.
Oh, she was feeling thoroughly out of sorts.
There were not many other people in the park. At the moment there was no one at all in sight, though several times she had heard the sound of distant laughter. It was hard to know exactly from which direction it came.
She wished he was not standing quite so close. Yet when she half turned her head in his direction as though to caution him to keep his distance, she could see that there was at least a foot and a half of space between them. And a sudden thought popped into her mind, as though from nowhere.
Was this how Abby had felt when she met Gil? Or how Cousin Elizabeth had felt when she met Colin, even though she was nine years older than he? Was this—oh goodness—was this how Aunt Matilda had felt when she met Viscount Dirkson, or, rather, when she met