Their curiosity would know no bounds.
“That is very kind of you,” Anne said, “but I could not possibly accept your generosity.”
“It’s not my generosity. You may thank the Royal Mail.”
“Still, I could not abuse your franking privilege in such a way. If you would just see me to a receiving house . . .” She looked out the window to determine their precise whereabouts. “I believe there is one on Tottenham Court Road. Or if not there, then . . . Oh, I had not realized we were so far to the east. We should go to High Holborn instead. Just before Kingsway.”
There was a pause.
“You have quite a comprehensive knowledge of London receiving houses,” he said.
“Oh. Well. Not really.” She gave herself a swift mental kick and wracked her brain for an appropriate excuse. “It is only that I am fascinated by the postal system. It’s really quite marvelous.”
He looked at her curiously, and she couldn’t tell if he believed her. Luckily for her, it was the truth, even if she’d said it to cover a lie. She did find the Royal Mail rather interesting. It was amazing how quickly one could get a message across the country. Three days from London to Northumberland. It seemed a miracle, really.
“I should like to follow a letter one day,” she said, “just to see where it goes.”
“To the address on its front, I would imagine,” he said.
She pressed her lips together to acknowledge his little gibe, then said, “But how? That is the miracle.”
He smiled a bit. “I must confess, I had not thought of the postal system in such biblical terms, but I am always happy to be educated.”
“It is difficult to imagine a letter traveling any faster than it does today,” she said happily, “unless we learn how to fly.”
“There are always pigeons,” he said.
She laughed. “Can you imagine an entire flock, lifting off to the sky to deliver our mail?”
“It is a terrifying prospect. Especially for those walking beneath.”
That brought another giggle. Anne could not recall the last time she had felt so merry.
“To High Holborn then,” he said, “since I would never allow you to entrust your missive to the pigeons of London.” He leaned forward to open the flap in the landau’s top, gave the driver instructions, then sat back again. “Is there anything else with which I might help you, Miss Wynter? I am entirely at your disposal.”
“No, thank you. If you would just return me to Pleinsworth House . . .”
“So early in the afternoon? On your day off?”
“There is much to be done this evening,” she told him. “We go to— Oh, but of course you know. We go tomorrow to Berkshire, to . . .”
“Whipple Hill,” he supplied.
“Yes. At your suggestion, I believe.”
“It did seem more sensible than your traveling all the way to Dorset.”
“But did you—” She cut herself off, then looked away. “Never mind.”
“Are you asking if I had already intended to go?” He waited a moment, then said, “I did not.”
The tip of her tongue darted out to moisten her lips, but still, she did not look at him. It would be far too dangerous. She should not wish for things that were out of her reach. She could not. She’d tried that once, and she’d been paying for it ever since.
And Lord Winstead was quite possibly the most impossible dream of all. If she allowed herself to want him, it would destroy her.
But oh, how she wanted to want him.
“Miss Wynter?” His voice filtered over her like a warm breeze.
“That is—” She cleared her throat, trying to find her voice, the one that actually sounded like herself. “That is very kind of you to adjust your schedule for your aunt.”
“I did not do it for my aunt,” he said softly. “But I expect you know that.”
“Why?” she asked softly. She knew she would not have to explain the query; he would know what she meant.
Not why did he do it. Why her?
But he didn’t answer. At least not right away. And then, finally, just when she thought she might have to look up and into his face, he said, “I don’t know.”
She did look then. His answer had been so frank and unexpected that she couldn’t not look. She turned her face to his, and when she did, she was gripped by the strangest, most intense longing to simply reach out and touch her hand to his. To somehow connect.
But she didn’t. She couldn’t. And she knew that, even if he did not.