But while not unaffected by his charms, she was not blinded by them either. And despite their engagement, Amelia considered herself to be a most objective judge of him. She must have been, because she was quite able to articulate his flaws, and had on occasion entertained herself by jotting them down. Revising, to be sure, every few months.

It seemed only fair. And considering the trouble she would find herself in should anyone stumble upon the list, it really ought to be as au courant as possible.

Amelia did prize accuracy in all things. It was, in her estimation, a sadly underrated virtue.

But the problem with her fiancé, and, she supposed, most of humanity, was that he was so difficult to quantify. How, for example, to explain that indefinable air he had about him, as if there was something quite…more to him than the rest of society. Dukes weren’t supposed to look quite so capable. They were meant to be thin and wiry, or if not, then rotund, and their voices were unpleasing and their intellect shallow, and, well…she had caught sight of Wyndham’s hands once. He usually wore gloves when they met, but one time, she couldn’t remember why, but he’d taken them off, and she’d found herself mesmerized by his hands.

His hands, for heaven’s sake.

It was mad, and it was fanciful, but as she’d stood there, unspeaking and probably slack-jawed to boot, she could not help but think that those hands had done things. Mended a fence. Gripped a shovel.

If he’d been born five hundred years earlier, he would have surely been a fiercesome knight, brandishing a sword into battle (when he wasn’t tenderly carrying his gentle lady off into the sunset).

And yes, she was aware that she had perhaps spent a bit more time pondering the finer points of her fiancé’s personality than he had hers.

But even so, when all was said and done, she didn’t know very much about him. Titled, rich, handsome—that didn’t say much, really. She didn’t think it was so very unreasonable for her to wish to know something more of him. And what she truly wanted—not that she could have explained precisely why—was for him to know something of her.

Or for him to want to know something of her.

To inquire.

To ask a question.

To listen to the answer, rather than nodding as he watched someone else across the room.

Since Amelia had begun keeping track of such things, her fiancé had asked her precisely eight questions. Seven pertained to her enjoyment of the evening’s entertainment. The other had been about the weather.

She did not expect him to love her—she was not so fanciful as that. But she thought that a man of at least average intelligence would wish to know something of the woman he planned to marry.