Jack pressed her hand to his lips, waiting for her to explain.
“I would have had enough money to take a room in Half-Moon Village, but earlier that day, I’d found the prettiest lambskin gloves. It was silly of me, I know, but I never imagined I wouldn’t be arriving in Old St. Vincentshire today. So I spent a ridiculous amount of money on them.” She sighed. “And now they’re ruined.”
The confession jolted him. She had very nearly died because of a pair of gloves.
But then an expressive smile stretched her lips. “So, I am grateful for them. Otherwise, I never would have met you.”
“I’m not so sure that’s anything to be grateful for.” He’d took her to be a prostitute. He’d disregarded her well-being along with her innocence because he’d been caught up in his own agenda—along with his annoyance at being inconvenienced—by the holidays, by this journey, but also by any disruption to his schedule. He’d been annoyed at having to stop—at having to save her life.
He wasn’t enjoying this version of himself.
She sighed. “My sister gets annoyed when I do that.”
“Do what?” Jack noticed a sprinkling of freckles running over the bridge of her nose and dispersing on her cheeks. There were also twin red marks that her spectacles must have made.
“Perpetually point out the silver lining.”
“And you have decided that I am a silver lining?”
“Oh, yes.”
Jack wanted to scoff at that but instead asked. “What other silver linings have you found?”
She didn’t have to think hard. “I was lucky enough to have had two seasons, even if I didn’t have a proper come-out.”
“Why didn’t you have a proper come-out?” A debutante’s problems weren’t something Jack was usually interested in, and yet—he was.
“My older sister, Rachel, hadn’t landed a husband yet. So my mother only agreed to me being out so long as I didn’t expect a fuss. I was already nine and ten, so I was ecstatic.”
“How old are you now?”
“One and twenty.” Delia grimaced. “How old are you?”
“Nearly twice that.” He wasn’t really, but upon realizing how young she truly was, he felt it. Jack ran a hand through his hair. No one had asked his age in a very long time. “You seem older.”
She didn’t look older but simply spoke as though she were.
“My grandmother used to say I had an old soul.” She surprised him by touching the corner of his eye. “And you are not twice my age.”
“Six and thirty.” Jack stilled, his breath catching for some reason. He cleared his throat. “Will you miss society?” She’d spent money she shouldn’t have on a pretty pair of gloves.
“I will miss my friends. A few of the ladies, I think, will miss me. I didn’t dance very often, so I spent hours sitting with other wallflowers and chaperones and dowagers. Being a companion ought not to be much of a stretch. I think I will enjoy it.” She blinked, eyes unfocused. “But for now, I feel rather…”
“Yes?” Jack prompted.
“I feel as though I’m caught between two worlds.”
“I suppose you are.” Because she, a gently bred young woman, was in bed with a man who wasn’t her husband—a man she barely knew.
She trusted him merely because he’d picked her up off the side of the road—because he’d done the bare minimum to prevent a woman from dying in the cold.
“May I ask you a question?” she said.
“I may not answer it, but yes.” He stiffened. Was she going to ask who his family was? And then would she hint that she expected him to make an offer for her?
Was this some sort of elaborate trap?
“There is more, is there not?” She rolled her lips together.