“Sorry,” Hugh said as he stepped into the light provided by one of the sconces in the corridor. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“You didn’t,” Elinor managed, breathless yet again in the face of a man who had defended her so perfectly.

How could candlelight possibly improve a man who was already impeccable in looks in daylight?

More mysteries, more unanswered questions.

Less interest in finding the answers.

Hugh smiled and folded his arms, leaning against the wall. “And what, exactly, do you consider yourself damned about, Elinor?”

It was strange, she couldn’t remember ever giving him permission to call her by her given name, but that, too, was mattering less and less. More than that, she loved hearing him say it.

Her name, his lips, his voice.

Perfection again.

A shiver raced down her spine, and she shook her head. “Oh, being a Spinster. Capital S,” she added, seeing the question in his eyes. “After that, I’ll never know if their opinions have changed if I marry or if I don’t. They all want me to be more like Emma, who, as you know, was an unfortunate spinster, but then married for comfort rather than for anything silly such as romance.”

Hugh was silent as he stood there, which was a blessing.

She did not wish for a commentary on the things she was about to reveal.

“The truth of the matter is,” she told him with a sigh, “that I am afraid of being like Emma.”

“Afraid?” he asked softly. “Of what?”

“Of settling for comfort as she did.” Elinor swallowed and her fingers began to play together anxiously. “Not that Partlowe is a horrid man. On the contrary, he is rather good. He can be stuffy, pretentious, dull, and, until a moment ago, I didn’t think he quite liked me, but he is rather good.”

Hugh chuckled to himself, and it made her smile to hear it.

“Emma is happy, I suppose,” she went on. Then she shook her head. “Well… content, perhaps. I don’t know if that’s enough for me. I don’t need the grand sweeping romance that Charlotte is seeking and throwing away excellent candidates for, but I don’t know that I could be happy with simple contentment, either. I shudder at the idea of a convenient marriage, especially if one might have a hope of something deeper and more sincere.”