He was never going to ride a horse or climb a tree or stride purposefully across a room and sweep a lady off her feet. There were a thousand things he’d never do, and you’d think it would have been a man who’d reminded him of this—an able-bodied man who could hunt and box and do all those bloody things a man was meant to do, but no, it was her, Lady Sarah Pleinsworth, with her fine eyes and nimble feet, and every bloody smile she’d bestowed upon her dance partners that morning.

He didn’t like her. He really didn’t, but by God, he’d have sold a piece of his soul right then to dance with her.

“Lord Hugh?” Her voice was quiet, but it held a tiny trace of impatience, just enough to alert him that he’d been silent for too long.

He took another sip of his wine—more of a swig this time, really—and said, “My leg hurts.” It didn’t. Not much, anyway, but it might as well have done. His leg seemed to be the reason for everything in his life; surely a glass of wine was no exception.

“Oh.” She shifted in her seat. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he said, perhaps more brusquely than he’d intended. “It isn’t your fault.”

“I know that. But I can still be sorry that it pains you.”

He must have given her a dubious look, because she drew back defensively and said, “I’m not inhuman.”

He looked at her closely, and somehow his eyes dipped down the line of her neck to the delicate planes of her collarbone. He could see every breath, every tiny motion along her skin. He cleared his throat. She was most definitely human.

“Forgive me,” he said stiffly. “I was of the opinion that you thought my suffering was no more than I deserve.”

Her lips parted, and he could practically see his statement running through her mind. Her discomfort was palpable, until finally she said, “I may have felt that way, and I cannot imagine I will ever bring myself to think charitably of you, but I am trying to be a less . . .” She stopped, and her head moved awkwardly as she sought words. “I am trying to be a better person,” she finally said. “I do not wish you pain.”

His brows rose. This was not the Sarah Pleinsworth with whom he was familiar.

“But I don’t like you,” she suddenly blurted.

Ah. There she was. Hugh actually took some comfort in her rudeness. He was feeling unaccountably weary, and he did not have the energy to figure out this deeper, more nuanced Sarah Pleinsworth.

He might not like the overly dramatic young miss who made grand and loud pronouncements, but right then . . . he preferred her.

Chapter 8

Chapter Eight