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“ A competition?” Miss Fernside repeated. Her voice was soft, only just above the sound of the carriage wheels rumbling along the bumpy road. “What sort of competition?”

Henry saw a spark of interest light up her eyes. He was enjoying this conversation. It was far more entertaining than watching poor Mrs. Haskett fanning herself and Mr. Haskett wincing in pain for hours on end.

The Hasketts’ rest was a godsend for them all, but it wouldn’t last forever.

Once they awakened, he would be duty-bound to be as appropriate as Society wished him to be.

No more whispering with Miss Fernside. Certainly no more touching her leg with his, nor gazing deeply into her eyes.

This was precisely why he was taking advantage of these intimate moments with her while he could.

“A simple challenge is all I suggest,” he whispered in reply.

She eyed him suspiciously. “You mean, like a wager? Like, gambling?” She shook her head. “My aunt and uncle would not approve. And neither would I.”

He leaned back in his seat with folded arms. Her attention lingered on his shoulders before she blinked and glanced at her aunt and uncle. She did that often—as if to ensure they still slept—but only ever when she’d been staring at Henry for a moment longer than propriety allowed.

He couldn’t say that he minded her stares.

Nor had he minded their proximity before.

He’d been teasing her when he’d glanced down at her lips.

Most women squirmed or backed away with a swift blush, but not Miss Fernside.

She’d drawn even closer, pride glinting in her eyes like sunshine off a stained-glass window.

“No, not like gambling,” he assured her. “There will be nothing at stake…aside from a title, that is.”

“A title?”

She shifted in her seat, moving farther away from him. Perhaps he ought to stretch out his leg again.

“Indeed,” he said. “The title of Best Bird Observer in All of England.”

She raised her brows with an unimpressed air. “How prestigious. A title only the two of us would acknowledge.”

“I would find it prestigious enough when I inevitably claim it.”

Her eyes narrowed as she took his bait. “What makes you so certain you would defeat me?”

“Due to my own experiences,” he responded simply.

“And my lack thereof,” she retorted.

Henry didn’t respond, nor did he refrain from smiling, which clearly vexed her further. Her brow furrowed, and her lips pulled into a sort of pout.

She was simply adorable, and Henry could not help himself. He loved a decent repartee with a woman. Most ladies took such offense that they retreated instantly. Fortunately, Miss Fernside seemed at the ready to volley back each of his servings with aplomb.

That was a most attractive quality in a woman—being unafraid to stand up for herself.

He was just grateful they’d both made it clear to one another that neither had any plans for matrimony.

This made his flirting and their verbal jousting more enjoyable, as he could do so without fear of any repercussions.

That was no doubt why she behaved as freely as she did—without care of being society approved.

It was not as if her behavior would scare off any potential suitors if she had no wish for them at all.

She turned away from Henry again, folding her arms and settling in her seat with a little wiggle of her shoulders. “Well,” she said airily, “I think it all rather childish. A competition to stroke one’s ego, really.”

He nodded, attempting to appear thoughtful. “Hmm. You are perhaps correct. It is a little childish. But forgive me if I choose to believe your avoidance is merely due to—to put it delicately—a particular fear of not living up to your earlier boasting.”

The fire in her gaze told him at once that he’d won.

“You think I’m frightened that I will not be able to win?” she questioned.

“Perhaps.”

“Very well.” A calm smile spread across her lips, accentuating her high cheekbones.

“I shall make two things very clear for you right now, Mr. Branok. The first is this, I have never been afraid of my abilities not living up to anyone’s standards.

Ever. And the second, I am fully aware that you are simply goading me with your irksome words so that I might accept your challenge.

And while I am loath to admit that your tactics have been moderately successful, I find myself unable to say no due to my plain and simple desire to see you sufficiently humbled.

” She raised her chin. “So…what is this challenge of which you speak?”

Henry grinned. “It is fairly straightforward. We simply make written note of each and every different bird we observe over the course of the tour in Yorkshire, Cumbria, and Cornwall. At the end of the excursion, the person with the most unique number of birds listed shall obtain the coveted title.”

She took but a mere second to respond. “Very well, I agree.” She pulled open the leatherbound book on her lap and flipped to a blank page. “Now, what of the rules?”

She turned to look at him, her head slightly tipping to the side so her blonde curls rested against her temples. She was a gorgeous creature, her curved eyebrows smooth and expressive above those almond-shaped eyes.

“The rules?” he questioned.

“Yes, rules ,” she repeated, looking at him as if he were the unreasonable one. “We must have rules and agree to abide by them if we are to partake in this challenge.”

Heavens, she was taking this seriously. He wanted to throw his head back in laughter, but he maintained his composure, if only to not offend her.

He’d seen the insecurity in her eyes already—her lack of experience observing birds making her question herself around the others. That was part of the reason why he’d suggested the challenge. Her winning would give her the encouragement she sorely needed.

“I’m afraid I have not given much thought to any rules,” he said.

“Why does that not surprise me?” she muttered under her breath.

She scrawled some writing across the top of one page, then flipped to another and did the same again, clearly intending on creating a copy for each of them.

“Rule number one,” she stated without looking up. “We shall begin the competition the moment we step foot on the estate in Yorkshire. Otherwise, you will have already fallen behind due to the number of birds I’ve recorded from London.”

“Very fair, indeed,” he stated.

“We shall carry on with the competition from Yorkshire to Cumbria, be on hiatus when we return to London for the fortnight, then resume once we set course for Cornwall, yes?”

“Of course.”

Henry shouldn’t have been too surprised that she’d recorded birds already. He’d seen her writing down her observations about the house sparrow. How many more she’d seen during their stop, he could only guess.

He, himself, had spotted at least half a dozen already, though he would’ve found more had Mrs. Chumley not spoken to him throughout the entirety of the luncheon in Luton.

But all was well. Henry would certainly have more of a chance to spot birds once they arrived anyway.

He really wasn’t concerned in the slightest about finding them.

He’d spotted the greatest martin in Gibraltar, the transverse striped dove in the East Indies, and the crested hummingbird in the West Indies.

He could easily find what he needed to in England.

Not that he had any intention of winning when Miss Fernside so clearly needed a victory. No, he would turn the challenge in her favor.

She finished writing the rule on one paper, then copied it to the next. “Rule number two,” she continued. “We mustn’t speak of our number until the end of the challenge.”

“Agreed.”

She wrote the next rule, this time pausing in between pages with a sigh. “You must excuse my penmanship,” she said, her voice still lowered. “I am not used to writing under such dreadful conditions.”

The carriage jostled as if on cue, and she sighed again, raising her pencil to wait for the passing bumps before progressing.

He leaned toward her to observe her writing, but a cloud scented of orange blossoms drifted around him. His leg was a hair away from her, their shoulders a mere inch apart.

She stole a glance at him but instantly whipped her gaze away, a blush splashing across her cheeks.

He eyed the gentle slope of her neck as she leaned toward her writing again, her movements graceful, and he observed her as if she was the rarest bird in South Africa, instead of the fine woman she was, jostling in a carriage.

“I think you quite flawless, Miss Fernside,” he whispered.

She looked up at him, pulling back in surprise and creating more distance between them.

“Your handwriting, I mean,” he clarified, though he was quite certain his half-smile spoke the truth more than his words.

She didn’t speak for a moment, then looked away with a shake of her head. “You are nothing as I had imagined you to be, Mr. Branok.”

“And how did you imagine me to be? Like Mr. Dunn?” he teased.

Once again, her cheeks pinked. “No. I thought you’d be a gentleman with more propriety than a common magpie.”

He softly chuckled. “I did warn you.”

“I suppose I shall simply have to muster up enough decency for the both of us, then.”

“It would appear so.”

She continued writing, and he leaned back in his seat, if only to not be caught too close to her by the Hasketts should another jostle from the carriage awaken them.

Henry was not typically a flirt. Well, not too bad of one, anyway.

But he’d become starved of feminine attention over the last six months in the West Indies.

And the months before that in Europe. And the past five years traipsing all over the world with only men for friendly companionship.

With Miss Fernside, he was obviously making up for lost time.