Her desires.
She breathed then—finally—and yanked her gaze away from his. What was that? Or more to the point, who was she? Because she did not know the woman who had stared at him as if gazing into her own future. She was not fanciful. She did not believe in fate. And she had never believed that eyes were the windows to the soul. Not after the way George Chervil had once looked at her.
She swallowed, taking a moment to regain her equilibrium. “You say that as if the sentiment is particular to me,” she said, pleased with the relative normalcy of her voice, “but I know that you would insist upon doing the same for any lady.”
He gave her a smile so flirtatious she had to wonder if she had imagined the intensity in his eyes just a few moments before. “Most ladies would pretend to be flattered.”
“I think this is where I am meant to say that I am not most ladies,” she said dryly.
“It certainly would flow well, were we on the stage.”
“I shall have to inform Harriet,” Anne said with a laugh. “She fancies herself a playwright.”
“Does she now?”
Anne nodded. “I believe she has begun a new opus. It sounds terribly depressing. Something about Henry VIII.”
He winced. “That is grim.”
“She is trying to convince me to take the role of Anne Boleyn.”
He smothered a laugh. “There is no way my aunt is paying you enough.”
Anne declined to comment on that, instead saying, “I do thank you for your concern the other night. But as for being flattered, I am far more impressed by a gentleman who values the safety and security of all women.”
He took a moment to reflect on that, then nodded, his head jerking a little to the side as he did so. He was uncomfortable, Anne realized with surprise. He was not used to being complimented for such things.
She smiled to herself. There was something rather endearing about watching him shift in his seat. She supposed he was used to being praised for his charm or his good looks.
But for his good behavior? She had a feeling it was long overdue.
“Does it hurt?” she asked.
“My cheek?” He shook his head, then contradicted himself. “Well, a little.”
“But the thieves look worse than you do?” she said with a smile.
“Oh, much worse,” he said. “Much, much worse.”
“Is that the point of fighting? To make sure one’s opponent emerges in a worse state than oneself?”
“Do you know, I think it might be. Foolish, wouldn’t you think?” He looked at her with a strange, ponderous expression. “It’s what got me sent out of the country.”
She did not know all of the details of his duel, but— “What?” she asked. Because really, even young men could not be so foolish.
“Well, not exactly,” he allowed, “but it’s the same sort of inanity. Someone called me a cheat. And I nearly killed him for it.” He turned to her, his eyes piercing. “Why? Why would I do that?”
She didn’t answer.
“Not that I tried to kill him.” He sat back in his seat, the motion oddly forceful and sudden. “It was an accident.” He was silent for a moment, and Anne watched his face. He did not look at her when he added, “I thought you should know.”
She did know. He could never be the sort of man who would kill so trivially. But she could tell he did not wish to say any more about it. So instead she asked, “Where are we going?”
He did not answer immediately. He blinked, then glanced out the window, then admitted, “I do not know. I told the coachman to drive aimlessly about until given further direction. I thought perhaps you needed a few extra minutes before returning to Pleinsworth House.”
She nodded. “It is my afternoon free. I am not expected anytime soon.”
“Have you any errands you need to see completed?”
“No, I— Yes!” she exclaimed. Good heavens, how had she forgotten? “Yes, I do.”
His head tilted toward her. “I should be happy to convey you to wherever you need to go.”
She clutched her reticule, finding comfort in the quiet crinkling sound of the paper inside. “It is nothing, just a letter that must be posted.”
“Shall I frank it? I never did manage to take my seat in the House of Lords, but I assume I possess franking privileges. My father certainly used his.”
“No,” she said quickly, even though this would have saved her a trip to a receiving house. Not to mention the expense for Charlotte. But if her parents saw the letter, franked by the Earl of Winstead . . .