“Don’t,” he said. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“Only that this might be commonplace to you but it’s not for me.”
“Do you think I make of habit of scaling walls with picnic baskets?”
She wrinkled her nose at him. “Courtesy is not something I am often offered,” she said carefully, trying to explain herself without sounding like she was drowning in self-pity.
Conall’s jaw clenched. “Yes, about that.”
She winced. “I expect you received…comments about our engagement. I did warn you.”
“That everyone has lost their minds? You never mentioned that part.” The fire touched his strong jaw and she felt true jealousy then. Her fingers itched to do the same. “I nearly launched several gentlemen into the fishpond. A few ladies too.”
She giggled without meaning to. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, satisfied. “That’s better.”
“I don’t mean to sound as though I am feeling sorry for myself,” she hastened to clarify. “Self-pity is useless. It gets absolutely nothing done except to give one a stomach ache.”
He shifted so he could face her. She wasn’t expecting the true delighted smile on his face. It was the same smile he’d given her when she’d asked for crumpets directly after nearly being murdered. “The men here are imbeciles. But I’m glad I do not have to fight them off.”
She snorted. “Hardly.”
“Was it Henry?” he asked casually; casually enough that she toyed with the idea of not answering him, of pretending she did not know what he meant. But she was beginning to realize that anything he did casually was a mask. “Is he the reason behind the loss of your reputation? Of courtesy, as you call it?” There was darkness in his voice now, an edge. She found she liked it very much. It was honest. It spoke a truth even when he couldn’t.
“It wasn’t Henry,” she answered, more awkwardly than the worldly lady she was supposed to be would have answered. “He was away.”
“Who then?”
“No one from these parts.”
“Do you protect him, Percy? Even now?”
She smiled a little. “Are you trying to protect me, Conall?”
“Of course, I am. Does he need a bruising? I’m happy to oblige. Delighted, in fact.”
“It was a long time ago.” She ate a sugared grape because she didn’t know what else to do with her hands. “I planned it, you see.”
Conall blinked.
“Do you think less of me?” she asked.
“Don’t be daft.” A quick, harsh answer. Truth again, not flummery.
Her smile widened. He narrowed an eye. “Are you remembering him, fondly, then?”
“Good Lord, no. He was a prat.”
He choked on a laugh. “I see.”
She shrugged. “But he was handsome and useful.” She shifted. It was strange to tell her side of the story finally, especially here, now, with the wind coming through the open balcony doors, full of roses and starlight. “He thought it was his idea. He plied me with poetry and flattery and never noticed the whole thing was my idea.”
“Naturally.” He shook his head. “I can’t give young men glowing recommendations in that regard, I’m afraid. I like to think most of us outgrow our own sense of self-importance.”
“We both got what we wanted so it does not signify.”
His jaw ticked again. “Did he, now. And you? What was it you wanted? Love? Pleasure?”
“Freedom,” she said, simply.