“And you were wronged by his mother, and as your friend, he should have seen that you were taken advantage of. Yes. Yes,” she said, waving her hand. “And you know I’m right. His mother manipulated you, and you resent the family and believe yourself better off without any of them, for good reason of course, Lettie included.”

He drew back. “Is that what you think?”

“No.” She paused. “But I can certainly see why the young lady might believe you view her the same way you view her family.”

Was that what Lettie believed? And why shouldn’t she? You made it clear, in no uncertain terms, that you feel she is a burden. And you spoke constantly about your regrets about that act you committed. And she knew her mother had been involved in those events from the past.

“Well, it doesn’t matter,” he said tiredly. Either way, he’d made a mess of the special something they’d had going.

“No, it doesn’t.”

Something hung on the edge of that response, a suggestive undertone.

She picked up the newspaper she’d set down and proceeded to read.

In no way did he believe for a moment that she’d done so to mark an end to their discussion.

Anything but, in fact.

“What?” he gritted out.

“According to the gossip, Lord Exmoor is finally coming up to scratch,” his mother said from behind her paper. “He intends to offer for Lettie at last.”

He jerked, his knee jolting up and striking the edge of the table hard, rattling the dishes. Pain shot down his leg, and he ignored it. Welcomed it.

His mother peeked around the edge of her paper. “Is everything all right?” she asked, her eyes widened in patently feigned innocence.

“Fine,” he said tightly.

His mother returned to her reading.

“I’m certain it is gossip,” he said.

“And whyever do you think that?”

“Because the lady wouldn’t… She wouldn’t…wed Exmoor.” Because she didn’t love him, and she was too passionate and glorious to deserve anything but love, and she would not settle.

Would she? a voice taunted, and a vise gripped slowly about his chest.

“She’s a spinster,” his mother remarked casually.

“She’s not even twenty-eight.”

“And they say she is a bluestocking.”

“She enjoys reading,” he said tersely. “And I think it would be wrong to speak ill of her for having a mind and using it.”

“They say her smile is too big and her laugh obscene”

The control he’d managed broke. “Her laugh is perfect,” he snapped. “And her smile is real and infectious, and they wouldn’t know what to do with a woman who radiates as she does. Certainly, Lord Exmoor wouldn’t or won’t, and he certainly doesn’t deserve either her laugh or her smile, because no man does—”

He stopped himself as a slow smile curled his mother’s lips up at the corners.