Which was the most painful topic he could have stumbled upon, at least after her unwelcome feelings for himself. “Er, yes. Yes she is.”
Again silent nodding on both their parts. She blew out a frustrated breath. Really, one of them had to give. But she had spent a decade and a half redirecting even the most innocuous conversations away from herself. If anyone would win this, it was she.
Unfortunately he seemed to have the same idea in mind.
“Do you miss Boston?”
“I do. Do you miss Danesford?”
“Yes. Do you have plans while in London?”
“Somewhat. When does your sister marry?”
“In a month. Peter mentioned you have family here in town?”
“I do. Will you live with your sister or return to Danesford?”
“I’m not certain. When do you leave on your journeys?”
He slumped in his seat, as if the weight of the world had fallen onto his shoulders. “I hardly know,” he muttered, looking defeated.
She frowned. “You don’t know when your trip will begin?”
He shook his head. “I had planned…But plans change, don’t they?”
Yes,” she answered cautiously when his dark eyes found hers. “Yes, they can change, quite unexpectedly at times.”
He let loose a sharp laugh, making her jump. Goodness. Earlier that afternoon he’d been his usual self, cheerful and teasing. Now, however, he appeared quite altered. It was almost as if he was in the beginning stages of grief.
In an instant her own worries were forgotten. That was it. She could see it in his eyes, the slight glazed look that spoke of a recent tragedy. Her heart ached for him, for there was no doubt he was suffering.
She leaned forward. “I know you came to speak to Peter, but if you should need an ear to bend in the interim, I’m here,” she murmured gently, laying her hand over his.
Too late, she remembered he was not wearing gloves. And neither was she.
A warm current snapped, searing her palm. Though the suddenness and strength of it shocked her, she was unable to pull back. Gradually, as if through a tunnel, she heard a harshly indrawn breath. She thought for a moment it was her own. But no, her breath was caught in her chest. The sound came from Mr. Nesbitt.
Before she could make heads or tails of his reaction—surely he could not feel even a modicum of what she did—he gently pulled his hand away.
She should feel relief. He at least was of a clearer frame of mind and saw just how improper her forward manner had been. Instead a strange feeling of loss came over her.
Thankfully a maid arrived with the tea tray, giving her just the thing she needed to collect herself. She had been lady of her father’s house for years; putting on the mantle of hostess was like shrugging into a comfortable coat. A coat that gave her some much neededprotection against the effect that Mr. Nesbitt had on her.
“How do you take your tea?”
There was a beat of silence. She refused to look up at him. Eventually—finally—he spoke. “Sugar please.”
She nodded, still not looking at him, busying herself with pouring the beverage. A job that took her far longer than normal, perhaps. She glanced up when she handed him the cup and froze. His dark eyes were intent on her, a small line between his brows. She fought the urge to look in the mirror on the far wall to make certain she wasn’t sprouting feathers or something equally outrageous from her head.
“Is something amiss?”
“Not at all,” he hastened to assure her. But his strange perusal did not abate.
She cleared her throat, nervous fingers flying up to pat her hair. “Are you certain?”
“Perhaps you can help answer something for me.”
She blinked. “Ah, of course. What is it you wish to know?”