He watched Catherine bend over the desk, scribbling across the page, striking through a line and then rewriting it.
Her handwriting was abominable. He remembered trying to decipher her initial plans on paper. He’d expected the elegant script of a lady, but rather he’d found the hurried cursive of a quick mind. It fit her, somehow. Brilliant in her own right, she had a vision in business he’d rarely seen in gentlemen her age, or older. It was a challenge to keep up with her, and he loved every moment. When he’d explained something she’d not quite understood on her own, her eyes narrowed slightly, and she’d leaned forward, studying the words and committing them to memory.
As a professor, he loved it when his students reacted in such a way. It meant the subject mattered to them. It had found a home in their minds, growing and becoming a live concept that could change, grow, and expand.
He saw that same hunger for understanding in Catherine, but its effect on him was different. In his students, he’d found it satisfying. In Catherine, it was thrilling, erotic, and moved him in ways he didn’t know could happen when discussing investments.
It had caught him off guard, the power of his attraction and how it came alive with the simplest of looks, touches, or even topics they discussed. He was contemplating that as she paused in her writing, her hazel gaze a welcome haven for him, a source of peace and desire that were equally powerful.
“I think I have it all written down. Can you think of anything I should add?”
“No,” he answered.
Accepting his answer, she turned back to her writing.
He watched as her golden curls draped from the coiffure her maid had twisted into submission, but the few strands of hair caressing her shoulder drew his attention, tempting him to feel the softness they touched with such ease.
That was out of his reach, and even if it weren’t, he couldn’t touch her in such an intimate way in the presence of Mrs. Burke.
“Finished,” Catherine replied. “I’ll need to rewrite it all, of course. I was in such a hurry that it’s a trifle messy.” She frowned.
Quin resisted the urge to agree with hertrifleremark. He stifled an amused laugh but apparently didn’t hide it well enough, as Catherine speared him with a challenging expression.
He lifted a hand in surrender, even if his lips widened too much to appear sincere.
“Very good.” Catherine set everything aside. “Now, with that done, I think we deserve tea and cake.”
“I couldn’t agree more, and then a walk?”
“Charming idea,” Catherine replied.
Quin hazarded a glimpse at Mrs. Burke, who watched them unabashedly from her corner perch. No doubt she’d report their intentions to her employer, but hopefully by then it would be too late.
He watched as Catherine smoothed her skirts, frowning as she lifted an ink-smudged hand, then shifted in her seat. The lack of gloves was probably a good idea—better to smudge the inside of the glove rather than the outside. She started toward him, and he prefaced his query cautiously. “Would you like my assistance later today when you meet with your solicitor and cousin?”
He could read the answer in her eyes without her ever voicing the words. It was a welcome and surprising revelation to know someone so well.
“Thank you for your kind offer, but I need to do this myself.”
“I understand,” Quin replied honestly. How often had he done some difficult thing by himself when he could have asked for assistance from a colleague or even from his family? He respected her strength.
“Thank you for understanding,” Catherine replied. “If there’s something I’ve learned about myself in all this, it’s that I resent being at anyone’s mercy.” She paused. “I don’t know if this makes sense, but it feels like pity, unwelcome, unsolicited, and yet something you can’t avoid either.” Her brows knitted as she spoke.
Quin nodded silently. Her words resonated deep within him. Hadn’t he felt the same way? He couldn’t imagine not having some semblance of control in his own life, especially when he felt the weight of his decisions so powerfully because of their effect on his family, his title, his name.
“It’s kind of like a wound,” Quin replied after a moment, and Catherine’s eyes darted to his.
“A wound?”
“Yes.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “A visiting professor, Johann Christian Riel, came to Cambridge from Berlin and gave a lecture. He was raising awareness of the conditions of institutions like asylums, but he touched on some other topics that have stayed with me.” Quin paused, his brows puckering as he selected his words. “He made the argument that when we find ourselves in a situation that is not comfortable, we have an instinct—a vital force that compels us to repair our situation.”
Catherine regarded him, her hazel eyes flashing with intelligence as she considered his words.
“It was unfair to lose Wes—Avery, for both of us. And there is no sense in it, but we have an instinct, a vital force that compels us forward. It’s that strength I see in you that is unrelenting, passionate, determined.”
Quin paused, not expecting the pang that assaulted him at his own words. Pain because he still missed his brother, and pain because that same brother had been assured of something Quin wanted…Catherine’s affection. He shoved the unwanted reactions away and continued. “And we know what it feels like to be out of control and unable to change something foundational. So we are more highly aware of things that make us feel out of control. Heaven knows I struggled with my title and responsibilities, feeling the weight of every decision.” He gave a shiver of remembrance. It was better now; he’d adapted, which led him to his final point. “We adapt, however. And while some people run from those unwanted reactions, Catherine, you rise to meet and challenge them. It’s to your credit.”
He watched her reaction, unreadable and intense, with interest.