“I feel it, too,” she admitted.

He gave her a tormented look. “Do you?”

She nodded. There was no point in denying it. “I wish I didn’t feel it.”

“I wish the same. But now we’ve acknowledged it…perhaps we’ve robbed it of its power. We can move on. Forget any of this ever happened.”

“Can you forget?” she asked.

Mr. Archer settled his hat back on his head. “I’m sure as hell going to try.”

Chapter 8

Over the next three days, Laura saw Mr. Archer often, but never again did she confide in him as she had on the way to the Roman ruin. And never again did he attempt to kiss her. He scarcely looked at her, truth be told. All of his energies were directed toward Henrietta—walking with her, talking with her, and generally making himself agreeable.

When they went to the village shops, Mr. Archer sat next to Henrietta in the barouche. When she played the pianoforte in the Edgington Park music room, he was at her side, turning the pages of her music. And when they strolled in the Edgington Park rose garden, he bent his head to Henrietta’s, sharing private words with her that provoked her blushes and laughter.

Laura wasn’t jealous. How could she be? She had no claim on Mr. Archer, and wasn’t likely to ever have one. She had no fortune to lure him. Nothing but her poor self and whatever meager attraction he felt toward her.

Not that it really mattered.

She had too much on her mind to care what Mr. Archer was up to with Henrietta.

Even so…after three days in company with him, his single-minded attention to her friend began to grate. How changeable he was! How utterly adept at playing the doting suitor. Was there nothing real about the man? Nothing meaningful or true?

He seemed a sinister chameleon, capable of changing his personality to suit his company. There was nothing of the honest gruffness she’d experienced in him when he’d hauled her out of the pond, nor of the gentleness he’d shown her when he’d dried her tears. He cast her no brooding glances, and showed no signs of the frustration he’d exhibited when he’d backed away from her under the yew tree. Indeed, there appeared to be nothing authentic about Alex Archer at all.

On Sunday, Laura saw him in church. He was seated in a pew at the front, along with George, Henrietta, and Squire Talbot. It was the pew reserved for the squire and his family, a seat of honor many rows away from where Laura humbly sat with her Aunt Charlotte.

After the service, Mr. Archer lingered behind to be introduced to some of the villagers.

Henrietta glanced back at him with a smug smile as she and Laura walked out of the church together. “He’s not as handsome as George,” she said, “but he is handsome.”