He looked down and turned his hand over. Taking great care that they should not touch, she dropped the matches into his open palm.

“Thank you,” he murmured, all the while peering carefully at her face, as though he was searching for evidence that she was not as calm as she appeared—that she was not unaffected. He would be right if he perceived that, but God willing he would not. She did not want him to know how hurt she felt.

He knew the ribald nature of his conversation with his friends. He knew she should be scandalized and offended—and she was. She was actually fine with him knowing those things. As long as he knew she was not crushed. She would not have him know he possessed the power to hurt her.

“Pardon me.” She nodded to the door he was blocking, indicating she wanted to pass.

“Of course.” He stepped aside, still looking as though he wanted to say something. God spare her whatever lies and platitudes he would offer forth to soothe her. She did not want his sham of an apology. She would not believe him, at any rate, and he could not expect her to—not on the heels of everything she had overheard.

She was well clear of him and out the door when she suddenly stopped and looked back at him.

Bathed in sunlight, he stood in the threshold, one shoulder wedged in the doorjamb, an eyebrow lifted questioningly. And it occurred to her then. He was not sorry. Indeed, not one little bit. There was no regret in that supercilious arched eyebrow of his.

She moistened her lips, outrage bubbling up inside her. “I would just like to say . . .”

“Yes?” he prompted.

“I would have you know . . .” He continued to stare at her in patient expectation, and she blurted, “Wheat mites can be very serious and decimate an entire crop. An entire shire can suffer the ravages of wheat mites.”

That said, she turned and left him.

Perhaps she should have said something else. There were a great many things she could have said that were more stinging, but that was the one thing that had popped out from her mouth.

She had heard Penning speak unrestrainedly. Now she knew his true mind. There was no confusion. No obscurity. This particular monster no longer hid in the dark.

She’d glimpsed the real Penning, and she would never forget him or his words . . . even as she managed to avoid him in the days and years to come.

At future gatherings, she kept her distance. Greeted him as required, but said little else. An outsider looking in would think naught of it. One might remark that the vicar’s daughter was merely reserved in nature around her betters.