stared at him. He was infinitely more terrifying here alone than she could have imagined a man would be. What could she say to him?
He examined her in turn, with tired eyes, and after a moment his faint smile came and went. "You seem very small and lost, curled up in your chair."
"I am not so small as all that."
"Young, too. Painfully young. All too innocent."
Was that a flaw? "I thought that's how brides are supposed to be."
His eyelids dropped, and he looked away. "Perhaps they are. It is only I who feel so jaded by comparison."
"You don't seem jaded to me."
"Do I not? How do I seem to you?" He glanced back as he asked, and rested his head on the padded back of his chair to survey her with eyes she could not read.
She hesitated, wondering if it would be gauche to tell him. But then she was not skilled at pretense. "Noble," she said quietly. "You seem noble, and sad, and weary. And as if your troubles are too big and time too short."
There was a short silence. "Perceptive little thing, aren't you? All apart from the nobility. Such qualities are in short supply these busy times."
"Then polite, mostly, which passes for the same, I suppose. And in mourning, which might look romantic to the uninitiated. I am foolish no doubt. Give me leave to build my new husband into a creature worth admiring-"
"Praiseworthy sentiments, but I shall only disappoint."
"Are you a cynic, then?"
His eyebrows went up. "Nothing so formal. Only-"
"Jaded, yes. I heard you. And it's true that death of loved ones makes it hard to be cheerful. I think it must be difficult to take on the responsibilities of a great inheritance when one is full of sorrow. Even more when you find the inheritance so sadly wasted."
"Wasted. That is the exact word for it. But you mistake my sentiments. My cousin was never a kind man, nor inclined to pay attention to those he believed his inferiors."
"But surely for his family-"
"Surely not, Madam-Elizabeth. Beth. We were of no interest to him, and he was hardly a kind or generous family head. He forgot us as completely as he could manage."
"Pride goeth before a fall," she said stoutly, and then her hand flew up to cover her mouth. "Oh, I should not say such things. How dreadful."
But at this he laughed, for only the second time since she had known him. It was a short laugh, and hard, but it lit his face for a flash of an instant and she felt a tightening in her chest.
"Dreadful," he nodded. "Far too apt." His grin took any sting from his words. But too quickly it faded, and he took a deep breath, and let it out again. "It was pride precisely. A beautiful pair of high steppers, a crowded street, then a sudden accident ahead of him, and the Earl a member of the Four-In-Hand who was certain he could bypass it without checking. A friend of mine, James Carstairs, was there and saw it. Carstairs said he himself would have jumped down and run to the heads of his horses, guided them through. But Edward - my cousin - was determined to keep his place. The horses reared in the traces, the phaeton tipped, and Edward was thrown head first to the cobbles."
"How appalling," Elizabeth whispered, picturing it all too vividly. She was nauseated.
Lord Carhampton, who had fallen into a sort of trance as he spoke, started and looked up at her face. Whatever he saw there made him stand and come forward, then go swiftly down on one knee beside her and take her hands in his dry, warm ones. "Now it's my turn to apologize. I'm sorry. I should never have told you such a story. What was I thinking?"
"Oh no, no," said Elizabeth, but made no attempt to free her hands, entranced by his sudden attention. "Only I would not wish that fate on anyone, no matter how they squandered their estate or ignored their relatives, or how prideful they were. It is very bad."
"It is."
"And now all those burdens fall to you." She blinked at him, his eyes on a level with hers for the first time. His were a lovely color now she could see them so well, so