The question escaped before she could stop it. She’d have given anything to call it back again.

His gaze flicked to his nightstand. “It’s Lady Helena’s book.”

Clara had assumed as much. The Abbey’s library was filled with books of every variety. “Yes, but…why are you reading it?”

He shrugged. “Curiosity.”

“About Sir Galahad?”

“About you.”

Warmth suffused her chest. She’d suspected his interest was in her and not in Arthurian poetry. But to hear him admit it…

“I don’t like Sir Galahad,” he said.

“Don’t you?” She privately confessed to a faint flicker of disappointment. “He’s noble and pure of heart. The noblest of all the knights.”

“He’s n-never been kissed,” he said. “Or held a lady’s hand.”

She blinked. “Oh, that.” She leaned back against the windowsill. The ridge of it pressed into her hips, pushing her crinoline out in front of her. “It lends to his purity, I suppose. The reason he’s deemed worthy to find the grail.”

“Is that what you think of…of me?”

“I don’t—” She broke off. “It was just a foolish fancy. I don’t know why I gave voice to it.”

He slowly crossed the room to join her. She’d only seen him in his shirtsleeves once before, and then she’d been too distracted by Betty’s labor to get a proper look at him. But now…

Great goodness.

Without his coat and cravat, he looked even bigger, if that was possible. All broad shoulders, and lean, masculine strength.

It was quite easy to imagine him in a suit of polished armor, atop that enormous gray horse of his. A horse that did rather resemble a charger.

He propped his shoulder against the window frame. “Because I lived at the c-convent.”

“Yes. I daresay that was part of it. And because you’re so very handsome, and so very kind.”

His mouth quirked.

Good lord, had she just called him handsome?

She rushed to explain, her words tumbling over each other. “It’s all silliness, of course. I have a tendency for such things. To romanticize gentlemen who are kind to me. Some people shouldn’t read poetry or novels. It gives them all sorts of romantic ideas about life, and about people. It’s not at all healthy.”

He frowned at her. “You’re not silly.”

“You don’t know me, sir. I have a long and undistinguished history of fantasizing. But I’ve grown up since. I’ve committed myself to being sensible. I’d thought I was succeeding at it until I met you.” An unexpected swell of sadness clogged her throat. “It’s good that I’m leaving. If I stayed through Twelfth Night, I’d likely end up making a fool of myself.”

“Over me?”

She forced herself to meet his eyes. “I’m not imagining it, am I? That we’re attracted to each other? Drawn to each other?”