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He had his hat and gloves in his hands, and Victoria wondered why Mrs. Wayneflete had not taken them from him.
“Good afternoon, Miss Shelby,” he said in that deep voice.
“Good afternoon, my lord.”
“Would you care to take a carriage ride with me?”
Was he actually…courtingher, when it no longer mattered? She felt ridiculously warm at the thought of such flattery. “I—of course. Just give me a few minutes to prepare myself.”
Then she and Mrs. Wayneflete went looking for a bonnet and shawl and the appropriate gloves. Soon she was sedately walking down the front steps to the pavement, her hand just resting on Lord Thurlow’s bent arm. At the edge of the street waited an elegant phaeton with its top down, led by a matching pair of white horses. If he was trying to impress her, he was doing a decent job of it. Behind the main bench, a maid perched on a small seat.
Victoria smiled at her, and the girl shyly smiled back. She was surprised by the chaperone, being that she and Lord Thurlow were an engaged couple—but she was certain he did not want even a whiff of scandal. She tried to put aside her unease.
He held her hand as she stepped up into the carriage, then he climbed in beside her and lifted the reins. He took up much of the bench, and his shoulder brushing hers made her feel rather strange inside.
She was not surprised to find that he was an excellent driver. He’d always been the kind of person who achieved whatever he put his mind to.
Or had he changed? She didn’t know what to make of him, how to bridge the ten-year gap in her knowledge of him. People could change so much when the responsibilities of adulthood settled in. A conversation would help, but he seemed to be concentrating on his driving and his occasional nod to people who called out his name with a wave.
No matter what his father had done, Lord Thurlow still had a place in society; he still had friends, if only in politics. All people whom she’d have to meet. She’d never imagined herself in such company.
But if Lord Thurlow was not going to talk, she herself could not sit here silently, each minute growing ever more awkward. As he guided the carriage into Hyde Park and down the Row, she wet her lips and tried to think of a topic of conversation.
“My lord, I hope you won’t think this a prying question,” she began.
He glanced at her. “We are to be married. Ask whatever you wish.”
“Most boys of your class went off to school at a young age. Why didn’t you?”
He concentrated on a sudden slowdown of carriages. She almost thought he’d forgotten, until he said, “My mother was often ill. She did not wish to be separated from me, her only child. My father hired tutors.”
“I see.” That left him plenty of free time to tease a lonely little girl next door. She kept reminding herself that he’d been very young when he’d lied to her, but that could not erase the feelings of betrayal deep in her soul. She thought they’d been sharing…everything.
Had he enjoyed writing to her? She glanced at his profile, so stern, yet handsome to her in an unusual way. She kept expecting a mischievous smile, for that was how she’d always pictured him. But his face was like a mask that hid all the truth behind it. Why couldn’t she know what he was thinking, as she once knew Tom’s every thought?
She sighed. “At least now I know why you never spoke of yourself.”
“Pardon me?”
“Your real self. I knew the earl had a son, but since you—since Tom never mentioned him, I always thought he—you were away at school.”
“You make it sound more complicated than it was. Except for the change in my name, it was always me writing to you.”
“Then why did you stop?” Oh, that was far too personal a question. But she couldn’t take it back. She wanted him to tell her everything, but he no longer seemed the kind of boy—the kind of man who would reveal intimacies about himself.
He kept looking straight ahead, guiding his magnificent horses, a man at ease in at least this part of his world.
“We were both almost grown,” he finally said. “I was sent off to school.”
“So there was no time for a brief explanation?”
He glanced at her, his eyes narrowed, and though she wanted to back down, she couldn’t. She stared at him, silently demanding the truth.
“I’m sorry I hurt you,” he said. “I was a stupid boy who got caught up in the excitement of finally being allowed to escape that house.”
“What did you have to escape? It seems like a perfectly acceptable house.” But it wasn’t the house—she knew that.
“I chafed at not being allowed to be with other boys my age. I was simply glad to feel like I was growing up.”