Page 66 of Snowbound Surrender

“It is not a sickness. I study butterflies and moths.” Lady Westhorpe’s accompanying laugh was throaty and only made Eleanor feel a little bit foolish. “I’m working to develop an oil that repels wool-eating moths.”

“That sounds very interesting.” The polite white lie tripped off her lips.

“I find it so, but I don’t expect others to.” Lady Westhorpe took a step toward the door. “I must be getting on, but please pass my compliments to Mrs. MacGrath. The dress she fashioned for me for the festival is quite lovely.”

“I will be sure to do that, my lady.” Eleanor watched Lady Westhorpe slip out the door, bemused by the fact Charlotte was dressing a countess.

She retrieved the packet of ribbons and other fripperies Charlotte had ordered from the man working behind the counter and turned to browse the reams of fabrics tucked into one corner of the store. She fingered a dark blue wool. Maybe she could ask Charlotte to make her a walking dress with the fabric. It would be a compromise from the unrelenting black and gray of mourning.

The scuff of a boot made her glance over her shoulder. Callum stood there, looking windswept and handsome. She whipped her head back around before deciding she couldn’t ignore him without being boorish. She shifted to fully face him. He held a brown-paper-wrapped parcel under his arm.

“A cornflower blue would suit you better,” he said.

“And how would you know?” she asked tartly.

“I have eyes and opinions about beautiful women.” He glanced around. “I forgot you were married. Should I worry? Will your husband call me out for impertinence?”

Callum did not seem concerned in the least about the possibility. Eleanor suspected there were few men who would choose to take him on. Not only was he well-formed, but he had the air of a man not to be trifled with. Certainly James, if he had been alive and tempted to fight for her, would not have been a match for Callum.

“I am a widow, so no need to fear some man will charge forward to defend my honor.” Oh dear. She had to learn to control the bitterness in her voice.

Any teasing and lightness went out of him. “I didn’t realize…”

She preferred the push-pull of their barbs over the intense awkwardness that had settled over them. “My sister is waiting.”

She held up the package and stepped toward the door, except he was in her way. She stepped right as he stepped left, effectively blocking her. She stepped left at the same time he stepped right, once again in her path.

“I didn’t realize you wanted to dance,” he said.

The past months had chipped away at her confidence, and after the revelations of his past betrothal, she had little patience or goodwill. She harrumphed. “I would never dance with you. Let me by.”

For an instant, a look flashed across his face that might have been hurt, but it was gone to be replaced by a slight sneer. “I suppose I would make a poor partner with my leg.”

“I didn’t mean—” She stuttered out the start of an explanation she didn’t know how to finish, but it didn’t matter because he was out the door, the bell tinkling violently. Regret niggled at her. She had been the recipient of too many thoughtless barbs not to know how they could hurt.

After taking a long moment to collect herself, she left the blue fabric behind and headed to the baker to get a loaf of fresh bread for their stew that evening. The bakery stood alone at the far end of the village to minimize the danger of fires, but Eleanor didn’t mind. The wind was bracing but, unlike London’s sooty air, fresh and clean. As she walked, she nodded and smiled at the friendly greetings from the few villagers that were out and about. No one glanced away or whispered in her wake.

When Charlotte had eloped and settled in Warlock, Eleanor couldn’t understand why her sister had thrown away the excitement and pleasures that London offered for such a remote backwater. Now Eleanor understood the appeal.

She slipped in the door, taking a deep breath of the fresh bread. A lone man stood at the counter with his back to her, but it was not the baker. It was Callum. His broad back in the black greatcoat was becoming a familiar sight.

He glanced over his shoulder, groaned, and let his chin drop to his chest, running a hand through his hair. Eleanor had a moment’s thought of turning around and leaving, but what would he think of her? She would be as cruel as the ladies of the ton she had come to despise.

“Are you following me?” he asked, his voice low and harsh. “Did you not get your pound of flesh already?”

She might have been put off by his gruffness if she didn’t intimately understand the cause of it. “Firstly, I’m not following you. I need a loaf for my sister’s stew tonight. And secondly, you ran away before I could explain myself.”

“I didn’t run away.” He turned around now, with a childishly indignant set to his mouth.

It made her want to smile for some reason. “Stomped away? Stalked away? However you want to phrase it, I had more to say and you left before I could.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “Well?”

She still hadn’t formulated a plausible explanation that wasn’t embarrassing for her. “I’m sorry.”

“What are you apologizing for?”

“For my brusque words about dancing.”