Someone to Cherish by Mary Balogh

Two

Much as he had enjoyed Christmas in Bath and the month in Gloucestershire, Harry was very happy to return home in February with signs of early spring all around him in the form of greening grass and budding trees and catkins and snowdrops, primroses and crocuses. For the past week or so he had begun to crave his own home and the quiet serenity of his life there.

For the ensuing week he enjoyed his aloneness, though admittedly it was not complete solitude. He spent time on the home farm, delighting particularly in watching the new lambs frolic on spindly legs about their mothers. And his two particular friends, Lawrence Hill, son of Sir Maynard Hill, a neighbor whose land adjoined Hinsford, and Tom Corning, the village schoolmaster, each came and spent time with him. Both were friends he had had since boyhood. Lawrence brought an invitation from his mother to take his potluck with them for dinner. Tom invited him to an evening of cards with some neighbors that his wife was organizing. Harry was soon feeling that he would never want to leave again, in fact. This was where he belonged and where he was most contented.

Except …

Well. Dash it all. Annoyingly, he appeared to have brought a certain restlessness home with him, and it could not be as easily ignored as it always had been. He kept thinking—with great satisfaction, it might be added—about how happy his mother was. And how happy Camille and Abigail were. They had each found what Harry considered among the rarest and most precious of graces: love and companionship with the men they had married. But then his thoughts would shift to himself. Would there ever be someone like that for him? That one woman in the whole wide world made just for him? How had his mother phrased it?

Someone to cherish.

He could start looking anytime he wished, of course. If he did not seek, he could not expect to find, after all. He was reluctant to go on a search, however. What were the chances he would find unhappiness instead—to be discovered only after he was married, when it would be too late to bow out and regain his freedom? Did everyone fear that sort of disaster? Of marrying the wrong person? Hadn’t his mother’s first marriage, to his father, proven how unhappily it could turn out?

But if he did want to start looking, he would almost certainly have to leave Hinsford to do it. There were a few eligible ladies within his circle of friends and acquaintances here, it was true—Rosanne and Mirabel Hill, for example, Lawrence’s sisters, and Theresa Raymore, daughter of the local magistrate. Harry liked all three and believed they liked him. They were all pretty girls and doubtless on the lookout for husbands. Harry might stand a chance with any of the three if he really pushed it. He did not believe his illegitimacy would be any great hindrance. However, he felt no noticeable tendre for any of them and detected none in them toward him. Certainly it was impossible to think of any of the three as someone to cherish.

Sometimes he wished he had never heard that phrase. But—could he ever settle for anything less?

So any courtship here was out of the question. For there was absolutely no one else. Yet he did not want to leave home. He certainly did not want to descend upon London in the middle of a Season. But where else would he look? And when else?

He did not really want to get married anyway. Not yet. Did he?

Why could he not just forget the whole thing, then, and return to normal? But he knew why. His thirtieth birthday was approaching. Why there should seem to be such a difference between twenty-nine and thirty he did not know. But there was. A man ought to know his own mind by the time he reached his thirties instead of floating along like a piece of driftwood on a river. A man ought to be settling down by the time he reached thirty.

He was not ready to settle down.

He was contented as he was, and what was wrong with contentment, after all? He felt aggrieved at the question, though there was no one asking it except himself.

Yes, he was contented. Was he happy, though? As his mother was happy? As Camille and Abby were? Three out of the four of them finding happiness with the perfect life partner was not bad, was it? Did not the common experience suggest, though, that it was too much to expect that the fourth would find a similar sort of happiness?

And there he went with the pessimism again.

Harry had still not recovered from his annoying restlessness when he read a letter from his mother at the breakfast table one morning a week or so after his return. She and Marcel had just arrived home too after spending a few weeks with Estelle and Bertrand, Marcel’s adult twins. They had spent Christmas with the aunt and uncle who had raised them after the accidental death of their mother when they were babies. Harry had the vague idea that their father had been largely absent during their growing years, driven by his grief to riotous living. Harry did not know the details or particularly want to. But whatever he had been in the past, Marcel was clearly a changed man now. He was, as far as Harry could see, an excellent husband and an attentive father. And a happy man, damn it.

Was the whole world happy except Harry Westcott?

But he was contented.

His mother’s letter was full of cheerful news—until it arrived at what had surely been her principal purpose in writing. She wanted to know if Harry was planning to go to London for part of the Season, as she and Marcel were— and as Estelle and Bertrand were for the first time in a couple of years. It would be quite perfect if Harry were to come too. Would he?

He would not. He cringed at the very idea.

He did go up to London now and then, if there was a good enough reason—a specific family event, for example, or the necessity to be fitted for a new coat or new boots. It did not happen often and he never stayed for more than a few days, a week at the longest. He could never leave soon enough, to be quite honest. Once upon a long time ago, immediately after his father’s death, when he had become the Earl of Riverdale and the instant darling of the ton, especially the younger element of it, he had basked in the glory of his new social prominence and had set about sowing some pretty wild oats despite the fact that he was officially in mourning. Then the Great Disaster had struck as from nowhere and the whole big party had come to an abrupt end. It was a memory he did not care to dwell upon.

Now, ten years later, he had no desire to go back to London or to try to recapture some of that faded glory. He probably could do it if he wished. Despite his illegitimacy, he would still be received by most if not all of the ton. He was just not going to do it.

But why did his life here suddenly seem so damnably dull? For four years it had been his haven. Almost his heaven.

Harry flung his napkin down beside his plate, got determinedly to his feet, and strode off to the library to reply to his mother’s letter without delay and make clear to her that he had no intention whatsoever of going to London this year. He was not going to have her and his Westcott relatives planning some grand surprise birthday party for him, which was probably why his mother wanted to know his intentions for the spring. Nor—ghastly thought!—was he going to have them playing matchmaker for him.

If and when he decided to marry, he would find his own bride, thank you very much.

He would get this letter written and sealed, and then he would go out and find something to keep him busy and use up some energy. There was never any lack of work to be done on his farm, and he was always willing, even eager, to participate in it. There was that card party to look forward to this evening at Tom and Hannah Corning’s house in the village. He would enjoy that.

But first …

He dipped his quill pen into the ink and attacked the letter to his mother.

Lydia Tavernor was seated in one corner of Hannah and Tom Corning’s parlor, listening to the conversation of the people around her but not, at the moment at least, participating in it. She was conscious of an inner welling of contentment as she looked about at the familiar faces of her fellow villagers and of a few people from somewhat farther afield. It was not exactly a party, and was not a particularly large gathering. Lydia was even more pleased, therefore, to have been included on the guest list for what Hannah had described as “an evening of cards and conversation with tea and cake.” The card games were over, and the guests were enjoying cake and pastries and tea while exchanging news and opinions and even a bit of good-natured gossip.

Sometimes Lydia felt a bit guilty about her contentment, even when it did not well up quite as abundantly as it did this evening, for she had been widowed only fifteen months ago and perhaps ought to be still prostrate with grief. It was what some of her neighbors might expect.

Her husband, the Reverend Isaiah Tavernor, had been the vicar here for only three years before his sudden death, but he had made a lasting impression upon the community both by his life and by the manner of his dying. He had been a young man—only thirty-three years old when he died—and handsome, vigorous, and charismatic. His eyes had burned with zeal in the service of his Lord and in his duty to the sheep of his flock. Apparently he had been a great contrast to the quiet elderly vicar who had preceded him, though Lydia had never known the Reverend Jenkins. Many people had considered Isaiah a welcome change. Some, it had seemed to Lydia, had even come close to worshiping him, almost as though they had put him in place of the very God he preached about. He had worked indefatigably for his church and his people. He had died by drowning while rescuing young Jeremy Piper from a river swollen and flowing fast and furious after several days of torrential rain.

The general opinion in the days of bitter shock and grief that had followed the tragedy was that Jeremy was a bad, useless boy who had defied strict orders to stay away from the water and would surely come to no good for the rest of his miserable life. Meanwhile, he had caused the death of a man who was goodness through and through but had now been cut off from doing the work the Lord had appointed him to do. No one had thought to suggest that perhaps the Lord had appointed him to save the child’s life, even at the sacrifice of his own.

Lydia’s shock and grief had been absolute. She had not collapsed or taken to her bed, but she had turned totally … blank for days afterward, moving about as though in a dream. Or nightmare, rather. For her whole life had revolved about Isaiah’s. He had always called her his helpmeet— almost never his wife—and that was exactly what she had been. His work had been her work. His beliefs and opinions had been hers. She had not known for days on end how she could continue without him.

Yet here she was now, continuing on. She was invited almost everywhere now that her official year of mourning was at an end. Most of the time, she supposed, she was invited for Isaiah’s sake rather than her own, for she could not be described as the life and soul of any gathering and never had been. She far preferred to listen rather than to talk. Though every conversation needed listeners, did it not? And in her experience far too many people preferred to talk, pausing only long enough during a conversation to be polite while someone else spoke before launching back into speech.

Not that Lydia was overcritical of talkers, especially those who just needed a sympathetic ear into which to pour their concerns, their aches and pains, or their loneliness. She was particularly kind toward and patient with those people whom others habitually avoided if they could do so without being too obvious about it—the long-winded bores and those, usually the elderly, who liked to tell the same stories they had been telling to the same audience for many years past. Lydia could always be relied upon to listen attentively and to respond as though she were hearing the stories for the first time.

No one was talking specifically to her at present. She was at leisure to listen to everyone and to look about and conclude that contentment was actually more desirable than active happiness. For where there was happiness, there was almost invariably unhappiness awaiting its turn. Extremes tended to be like that. They had a way of attracting their opposites, as though some cosmic balance needed to be restored. It was better and safer to settle for some position in the middle. Not that one could always choose, of course. Life was never that neat, nor its ups and downs that much within one’s control. But … Well, tonight she felt as though her life had turned out well for her.

She had chosen to remain in this place after her husband’s death because she liked the village of Fairfield and had grown fond of the people who lived here. She could have gone back home to her father’s house. He and her brothers had certainly assumed that she would. When Papa and James, her eldest brother, had come for Isaiah’s funeral and then accompanied her to his brother’s home for his burial in the family plot, they had expected to take her directly home with them afterward. It was their very assertiveness, perhaps, that had pulled her out of her dreadful lethargy. It would have been so easy to allow them to take charge—of her situation, of her life, of her. They had been astonished—not to mention alarmed—when she had announced her intention of returning to the village and staying.

“Alone?” Papa had said. “Lydie! It is out of the question. You are not thinking straight—as how could you be? I cannot think of anything worse that could have happened to my dearest girl. Go get the bag you brought with you and come immediately, while you have James and me to give you our company and support and to protect you on the journey. The rest of your things can be sent for. James will see to everything. You must not addle your mind over it. You know this is what Isaiah would want.”

Oh yes, she had known that. And perhaps for the first time it had really struck her that Isaiah was no longer with her and never would be again. She had dug in her heels and insisted upon going home. Home being here.

She could have stayed where she was with Isaiah’s brother, Bruce Tavernor, Earl of Tilden, and his wife. They had been civil enough after the burial to offer her a home with them, even to urge her to stay, since she was their last surviving link with Isaiah. She had not been ungrateful.

“Though you will no doubt be going home with your father, Lydia,” her brother-in-law had said. “If, however, you would prefer to remain here to live with Ellen and me, even if just for a while, you would be very welcome. For Isaiah’s sake. It is what he would expect of us, and not without reason. We must all be proud of him, you know, even though it is difficult to feel anything but raw grief at present. He died a hero.”

His own grief had been profound, and Lydia had hugged him tightly and clung while Ellen wept into her handkerchief.

Both Lydia’s father and Bruce lived in mansions set in large private parks and run by a host of servants, both indoor and out. Both had offered her a life of ease and security, a balm to the great bruise that was her life. She had chosen instead to come back to Fairfield, though she had moved out of the vicarage a week after her return, of course, to make room for the Reverend Bailey, the new vicar, and his wife, who had both been unfailingly kind to her ever since. She had been fortunate enough to have been left enough money to purchase a small cottage on the edge of the village and have enough remaining with which to live modestly for the rest of her life.

Her father had declared himself lost for words, though he had somehow found plenty anyway in the letter that had arrived after she announced the purchase. How could she possibly prefer to live in a house that would surely fit into a mere corner of his own? How could she possibly choose to live alone? But to Lydia her cottage soon became as precious as a palace. It was hers, and there she was answerable to no one but herself. That fact, totally unexpected in her life, was a luxury surpassing all others.

Her neighbors had doubtless been as surprised as her relatives when she decided to stay and live all alone among them. She would not even consider hiring someone to be her companion, though her father—when he had understood that she was not to be budged, at least at present, when she was still clearly out of her mind with grief—had suggested an indigent female relative who would be only too happy to come and lend her some respectability. Lydia had said thank you but no, thank you. She did not invite Mrs. Elsinore, the cook and housekeeper Isaiah had hired to run the vicarage, to move with her. While Isaiah had lived, Mrs. Elsinore had prefaced most of what she said in answer to Lydia’s directions with, “But the reverend says …” After his death she had changed that habitual response to, “But the reverend would say …”

Lydia hired no one to replace her. The house was not so large that she could not keep it clean and tidy herself. She did not possess so strong a personal vanity that she could not groom herself to look decent in company. She did not have a stomach so large that she could not feed herself, though she had never in her life had to do so until then. She discovered that she actually enjoyed cooking and baking, once she had gathered some recipes from her neighbors and done some experimenting and made a few adjustments until she was able to produce edible and eventually appetizing meals. Even dusting and polishing could be satisfying when she looked upon the results. For jobs like scything the grass and cleaning the outsides of the windows and running certain heavy errands, there was the blacksmith’s middle son, a lad who was happy enough to earn a little pocket money.

Lydia was living the life she had hardly dared to dream about before fifteen months ago. She had relatives and in-laws of whom she was dearly fond and with whom she corresponded regularly, but she was not answerable to any of them. She had neighbors who were amiable and fussed over her in quiet, sympathetic ways while she was still in mourning, forever bringing her flowers and baked goods and produce from their gardens. Mrs. Piper, the saved boy Jeremy’s mother, was particularly attentive in these ways, almost to the point of being intrusive, since she always brought her offerings right inside the house without waiting to be invited and looked around with avid curiosity as she talked.

The neighbors now included Lydia in the social life of the community, both simple gatherings like this one tonight and more elaborate events, like dinners at Sir Maynard Hill’s and the assemblies above the village inn, where there was music and dancing. But from her neighbors—most of them, anyway—as much as she valued their kindness, Lydia could withdraw to the privacy of her own home whenever she wished.

She had even acquired a few real friends over the last year or so, women like Lady Hill and Hannah Corning and Denise Franks, with whom she could visit and sit and talk and laugh. Women she could welcome into her own cottage. She had never been able to enjoy that luxury at the vicarage, where people were invited only on formal church business, organized and conducted by Isaiah and catered to by Mrs. Elsinore. Lydia had never had women friends until recently, in fact. She liked it.

There was only one thing she needed now to make her life perfect. Oh, it was not a man. Well, not exactly, anyway. She had had a man. Indeed, she had had nothing but men all her life, it seemed, ever since she was eight, when her mother died a few weeks after giving birth to Anthony, the youngest of her three brothers. She had no sisters and no grandmothers. Her only aunt, her father’s sister, was estranged from him since she had insisted upon marrying a man he had considered less than respectable. Then, at the age of twenty, Lydia had married Isaiah, who had one brother but no sisters and no living mother. Lydia had not had even a sister-in-law until three years ago, when she was twenty-five and first Isaiah’s brother and then her own had married. She had been married to Isaiah for a little over six years before his death.

There had been nothing but men in her life since she was eight—twenty years ago—until recently. She had decided during the past fifteen months that she had had enough of them, though none of them had ever been openly cruel to her. But there would be no more men—not, at least, men who would own her and have charge of her life and her very mind and person. Freedom was a wonderful thing, she had discovered. It was far too precious to give up. Ever.

Mrs. Bailey, the vicar’s wife, was arranging her considerable bulk on the pianoforte bench, having been invited to play by Tom Corning himself. She was by far the most accomplished pianist in the community. Unfortunately, the instrument was slightly out of tune, as it had been for as long as Lydia had been at Fairfield, and the key of high C stuck whenever it was depressed with any degree of pressure and had to be manually restored to its position before the music could continue. Everyone listened indulgently anyway while Mrs. Bailey played and Major Westcott stood at her shoulder to turn the pages of the music and lend his assistance with the sticky key.

“Tom,” he called across the room when the first piece came to an end and the smattering of applause had died down, “if you do not hire someone within the next week to overhaul this instrument and repair that key, I swear I will undertake the task myself and you will be sorry.”

“He will probably saw off the key altogether, Tom, and leave a gaping hole in its place for Mrs. Bailey and others to break a finger through,” Dr. Powis warned. “I would not chance it if I were you, though the broken finger would be business for me. Get the dratted piano tuner here.”

“You have been threatening to have the thing tuned for at least the last four years, since I came home,” Major Westcott said. “Hannah must have the patience of Job to put up with it.”

“I am not such a saint, Harry,” Hannah said. “I have been threatening to tune Tom over it for at least that long.”

There was general laughter. Tom Corning and the major had apparently been close friends since childhood and were grinning at each other as they bickered.

Lydia laughed with everyone else.

No, it was not a man that was missing from her life.

It was a lover.

They were one and the same thing, of course, some might argue. But those people would be wrong. A man in her life, whether father, brother, brother-in-law, or husband, would want to own her—he would own her. He would also want to dominate her. She would not allow herself to be owned or dominated ever again. A lover, on the other hand, could be enjoyed and sent on his way when his presence became bothersome.

Mr. Carver, one of Major Westcott’s tenant farmers, who lived a mile or so beyond the village, had come to sit beside Lydia before the music began. As soon as Tom and Major Westcott had finished calling across the room to each other, he launched into an account of the sudden and mysterious lameness of one of his horses in the right foreleg, just when there was a great deal of farm work to be done. Lydia turned her attention to him, though at least part of her mind was imagining how very deeply shocked he and all her neighbors and friends would be if they were aware of her deepest musings.

A lover could be enjoyed and sent on his way …

She had been the Reverend Isaiah Tavernor’s wife and helpmeet. That was the word he had liked to use to describe her. It was as though she had had no identity of her own. She was only his helpmeet. For more than six years, first as a curate’s wife, then as a vicar’s, she had cultivated modesty and invisibility because it was what he had expected of her. Not literal invisibility, of course. Everyone had seen her, welcomed her, apparently liked and approved of her. She had forever been busy about parish business and the performance of good works, as befitted the wife of a vicar. But nobody, it seemed to Lydia, not even her closest acquaintances, had really known her. She had had no close friends while her husband lived. She had been too busy, all her time and attention devoted to furthering the work that was his passion. Sometimes she had had the rather dizzying suspicion that she did not know herself. Was there even a self to know? Someone quite separate and distinct from her energetic, zealous, charismatic husband?

Since Isaiah’s death she had chosen to remain more or less invisible. It had been better thus while she was still in her blacks, and it was easier now so she could guard her fragile, hard-won freedom. She was known, she supposed, as the amiable, placid, even bland Mrs. Tavernor, the brave, tragic widow and helpmeet of their much-revered deceased vicar. She did not mind. At least for the present she did not.

Yet here she was, seated in the midst of a number of her fellow villagers, dreaming of a lover.

Specifically, of Major Harry Westcott.

Who very probably scarcely knew she existed.

She had never flirted with him or tried in any way to engage his interest. She would not even know how to go about either one anyway if she wished to try. She had no serious designs on him. The chance that she would find a lover, any lover, here in this small village was slim to none. Actually, slimmer even than that.

But a woman could dream, could she not? Dreams were often ideal pleasures because one could make of them whatever one wished. And if they never came true, as most did not and this one certainly never would, then what did it matter? Her real life was very nearly perfect as it was. Her dreams merely brightened it a little more.

Major Westcott was a young man, probably about her own age. He was tall and lean—not thin. That was too negative a word. Besides, his arms and shoulders and chest looked strongly muscled beneath the well-tailored coats and waistcoats he always wore. And his legs were long and shapely and powerful-looking beneath his pantaloons. They looked even more so beneath riding breeches and boots, she had noticed on other occasions. He was fair-haired and good-looking even if not outstandingly handsome. He had a good-humored face, with blue eyes that almost always smiled. She was not deceived by either his face or his eyes, however. What had always fascinated her most about him was the suggestion of darkness that he kept very well hidden.

Perhaps it did not even exist. His mask—if it was a mask—never slipped in public, or never had when she had been present to witness it, anyway. And he was generally known as an even-tempered, sunny-natured man without a trouble in the world now that he was back home after the Napoleonic Wars in which he had fought. Lydia did not believe it. She knew very little of his past, but she knew enough to understand that there had been much suffering in his life, and that it was unlikely he had either dealt with it all or otherwise put it behind him. It was far more likely that he had pushed most of it deep. Lydia knew all about that.

Once, very briefly, after the death of his father, he had been the Earl of Riverdale, with properties and fortune that had made him a very wealthy and socially prominent young man. He had been brought up and educated for just that life. But he had lost everything after the bigamous nature of his father’s marriage to his mother had been discovered. It all must have been absolutely devastating to his family. And to him. Oh, he was treated here with great deference despite that huge change in his life. Most people here had known him since he was a child and had always liked him. He was still treated as lord of the manor, somewhat above all of them in rank. He could no longer be called my lord or Lord Riverdale, of course, but he could be and was called Major Westcott as a mark of their respect, even though he was no longer a military officer.

He had been severely wounded at the Battle of Waterloo and had spent years recovering, first in France and then here at Hinsford Manor. He seemed perfectly fit now and had no visible scars, but Lydia doubted his recovery was complete or ever would be. Perhaps there were wounds of war that were not entirely physical. She had no evidence of that, but she had always thought it. How could one fight other human beings to the death, witness the slaughter of dozens, watch one’s friends and comrades dying, be wounded almost to the point of death oneself, and come away from it unscathed?

How did one live with memories of hell?

Why did people speak of battlefields as fields of glory? They must be as close to hell as it was possible to get in this life.

Oh, there was surely darkness in Major Westcott. Lydia could sense it. But it served only to make him more impossibly attractive to her than his appearance and outer manner already made him.

Could something be more impossible than impossible?

Lydia smiled to herself, gave herself a mental shake, and focused more of her attention upon Mr. Carver, who was still speaking even though Mrs. Bailey was playing again.

“Perhaps,” he was saying, “he has just grown too old and is ready to be put out to pasture. Do you think that might be it, Mrs. Tavernor?”

“Perhaps he just needs to rest for a while until his leg is better,” Lydia suggested.

As soon as the music had finished, Mrs. Bartlett, Lydia’s next-door neighbor, approached her and smiled apologetically down at her.

“Mrs. Tavernor,” she said. “I am sorry to interrupt your conversation. My daughter-in-law has persuaded me to go out to the farm with her and my son to stay for a few days. There is room in the carriage for me to go with them tonight. I have things out there and will not need to go back home first. I always welcome the chance to spend some time with my grandchildren. I will not need you to walk home with me after all, then. I know you are not afraid of the dark, but I do hope you will not mind going alone.”

“But we can squeeze Mrs. Tavernor into the carriage too, Mother, and give her a ride home,” her daughter-in-law protested, appearing at her side. She smiled at Lydia. “It will be no trouble at all.”

“There really is no need for you to go out of your way,” Lydia assured her as she got to her feet. It was indeed growing late. “I will enjoy the exercise and the fresh air after all the excellent cake I have eaten. And I really do not have far to go.”

“But—” the younger Mrs. Bartlett began, while all about them other guests were also getting to their feet and preparing to leave.

“Mrs. Tavernor will not have to walk alone, Mrs. Bartlett,” Tom Corning called across the room. “I’ll run upstairs and fetch a coat and come with you, ma’am. I doubtless need the exercise, and you really ought not to walk on your own at night.”

Lydia opened her mouth to protest. The main street of the village was not terribly long, after all, even though the Cornings lived at one end of it and she lived a little beyond the other end. A number of people between here and there would be at home with lamps or candles illumining their windows. There was absolutely nothing of which to be afraid. And then another voice spoke up, from the direction of the pianoforte, where Mrs. Bailey was gathering up the music and Major Westcott was putting it away neatly inside the bench.

“I am going in that direction anyway, Tom,” he called, “and would be happy to escort Mrs. Tavernor home. You will be perfectly safe with me, ma’am. I can fight off wild bears and wolves with my bare hands.”

“That would be a sight to behold,” Tom said derisively, grinning as he spoke. “Do you wish to take the risk that he is merely boasting, Mrs. Tavernor?”

“Since I have never in my life seen a wolf or a bear, stray or otherwise, in this neighborhood,” Lydia said, “I believe it is safe to take the chance. Though I hope I am not dragging you away earlier than you intended to leave, Major Westcott.”

“Not at all, ma’am,” he assured her. “Tom and Hannah will probably be glad to see the back of me. And it will be my pleasure to walk with you.”

He smiled at her. A sweet, quite impersonal, devastatingly attractive smile.

“Then thank you,” she said.

Oh goodness.