Lily George Read Free Page B

shaking her skirts, she caught a glimpse of a handsome, angular face. Gracious, Rowland was here already! He turned toward her, a smile lighting his eyes as he extended his hand in greeting.
    “Ensign Rowland,” she gasped and then cleared her throat. She hadn’t meant to meet him so soon. She needed more time to compose herself. But there was nothing to do but brazen through her nerves and her breathlessness.
    He nodded, his smile growing as he surveyed her. She paused a moment, awaiting some sort of spoken response, and then shook her head. Of course, he was not going to speak. Botheration. That was the entire point of their meeting, was it not? To help him overcome his affliction?
    To cover her confusion and deter his rapt attention from her now hotly glowing cheeks, Lucy took his hand and bobbed a curtsy. The brim of her bonnet would hide the pinkness of her face for a moment. But she hadn’t anticipated on the tingle that shot up her arm at his touch. Goodness, she was making a cake of herself.
    And if she went inside the church with him, her embarrassment would be writ clear on her face for everyone to see. Lieutenant Cantrill and Rowland’s other cronies would surely laugh at her and jest to Rowland about it later after the meeting was over. No, if she was going to hide her roiled emotions, it would be much easier to do so from just one man than a dozen.
    “Shall we sit out here and enjoy this fine weather?” She indicated a nearby stone bench with what she hoped was a carefree gesture. “After such a wet and cold winter, I vow I am quite in adoration of this spring weather.”
    Out of the corner of her eye, she spied the ensign nodding. She allowed him to steer her over to the bench and then sat, gathering her skirts about her with as much grace as she could assume.
    “Well, then.” She waited as he took his seat, stretching his booted legs out before him. Then she opened her reticule—her curiously light and flat reticule. Oh, gracious. She had left her book at home.
    She didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry; she was such a bundle of nerves. An emotion bubbled up her throat, and for a dreadful instant, she thought she was going to burst into tears. Instead, she chuckled, unable to hold back any longer. At least laughter relieved the unbearable anxiety she felt.
    Rowland glanced at her, puzzled, one eyebrow quirked. She turned her reticule inside out, showing him a few coins and bits of lint. “I came all this way, Ensign Rowland, and I never even had the book with me.”
    * * *
    Lucy Williams had the most enchanting laugh. And when she giggled, as she was doing now, her brown eyes sparkled and her cheeks glowed a dusky pink. It was delightful simply to gaze upon her, drinking in her mirth at the absurdity of the situation. He handed her his handkerchief, which she used to dab her eyes—she laughed so hard that tears just touched their corners.
    Her laughter slowed, and as her joy began to fade, confusion took its place. He wanted to reassure her—to wipe any trace of discomfiture away. So he withdrew a battered book from his coat pocket and handed it to her.
    She took the volume, handling it with a gentle touch to keep from pulling the worn pages apart. “Poetry? Ah, some of the finest. Sir Walter Scott, Dryden...” She continued perusing the pages. “I shall have to be very careful with this, ensign. I can tell just by looking at it that this is a book you have consulted many times.”
    He nodded, eyeing her carefully. His throat worked, but no sound came out. He remained silent and watchful.
    She traced over a dark splotch on the cover. “In fact, I would wager this book has been to battle.” She kept her eyes lowered, her dark lashes fanning out over her cheeks.
    He nodded again. He read those poems often in the field. More than once, Sir Walter Scott had given him the courage to see another battle.
    “I bet I can find your favorite.” She grasped the book, settling the spine on her lap.