Free The Enchantment by Kristin Hannah Page B

the porter, will you, and get him to let down our beds."
    He looked quickly away.
    Emma frowned. "Is something wrong?"
    "That depends on your point of view, actually; I mean, we're both adults and ..."
    "What are you talking about?"
    "My assistant, Ted—he's really a bright young man, good student—anyway, he tried to get you a sleeper ticket, but there weren't any. Except this one. He knew I wanted to sit with you. ..." His sentence trailed off.
    "And ..." she prompted.
    "And the upper berth is broken. We only have the one we're sitting on."

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    73
    Emma stiffened. "Are you telling me we only have one bed for the two of us?"
    "Yes."
    Her gaze cut to the brass pull-ring embedded in the mahogany overhead. It was almost impossible to believe that there was a bed lurking behind that elegant wooden facade; it was even more unthinkable that there
    wasn't.
    She saw the hairline crack that slithered from one end of the wood to the other. With a sinking feeling, she examined the remaining berth. Two seats—Larence's and her own—faced each other, forming a four-foot-by-six-foot enclosure. Tonight, when the porter came by, he'd fill in the space between the seats, slap a sheet on the mattress, and viola! a bed would appear. Abed.
    She grimaced. One bed. Two bodies. And not just any body—but Dr. Dimwit himself. "You propose to share this bed with me, then?" she said thinly.
    "Well, actually, it's my bed." She gasped. "You mean you'd actually—" Larence's mouth tilted in a quickly suppressed smile. ' 'I suppose a gentleman would give up his bed without a fight?"
    She nodded stiffly. "He would." A smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. "Duffey's etiquette book didn't say a word about relinquishing one's bed."
    It took Emma a moment to realize he was teasing her. She had no idea how to respond; it had been years since someone had joked with her. She stiffened, trying to maintain a cool, emotionless facade. "I believe this is the sort of thing the author would take for granted."

    74 Kristin Hannah
    "I guess you silver-spooners know a thing or two about unwritten rules."
    She blanched. "I wasn't born with a silver spoon in my mouth," she said quietly. "Quite the opposite."
    Larence focused on her with the same single-minded concentration he'd shown his magazine. An unexpected intelligence, deep and penetrating, shone from the bottle green depths of his eyes.
    Emma shifted on her seat. She didn't like the way he was looking at her, as if he were searching her soul for secrets. God knew she had enough of them.
    They stared silently at each other. Across the aisle an elderly gentleman coughed. The phlegmy sound vibrated in the thick, pipe-smoke-filled air.
    "I think maybe I knew that," he said finally.
    Emmaline's throat closed up at his quiet observation. She didn't like the turn this conversation was taking.
    Not one bit. It was getting entirely too . . . personal. "So," she said, restiffening her spine and hardening her stare, "do I get the bed or not?"
    "Of course."
    It was strange, really, the way the victory made her feel. Almost disappointed. Not at all as she usually felt when besting someone. "Where will you sleep?"
    He shrugged, and she could tell that it was a heartfelt response. He really didn't care where he slept. She shook her head in amazement. It was astounding how happy he was just to be.
    Fool. The word came automatically to her mind, but for some unfathomable reason, the familiar venom was absent.
    He turned back to his reading, and Emma found herself studying his downcast face.
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    He wasn't a bad-looking man, if one was attracted to the smiling, boyish type. He had . . . something. A joie de vivre that made her feel vaguely old. Almost elderly, in fact.
    It would be difficult for him to find a place to sleep
    on this crowded train. He was—
    (crippled)
    —a tall man, taller than she'd first thought, and he'd have to curl up like a cinnamon roll to sleep in one of the parlor