An Unpracticed Heart

Chapter Five

Hartley watched Charlotte as she set down the tray, as she poured tea for herself and removed the cloth that covered a dish of broth and several slices of dark bread. She moved like one trained by the tedious instructions of a dull governess. Each and every gesture was akin to the smallest of performances, played out on a stage that extended little beyond the confines of the plain wooden tray.

"What is that?" he asked as she grasped a heavy mug and presented it to him without a hint as to its contents.

"Milk," she said. "Goat's milk, to be precise. My aunt swears that it can cure almost every ill."

He sniffed it. It smelled grassy and faintly spicy, like various herbs and clover had been crushed into the bottom of the mug. He thought the aroma would have been more pleasant had he been some sort of cattle or lately taken to chewing on his cud. "Why aren't you having any?"

"Because I'm not ill."

Hartley took the mug and held it with both hands, his elbows braced on the arms of the chair to disguise the trembling that still afflicted his limbs. He looked up and saw her standing over him, her hands on her hips, her jaw set in a manner that brought to his mind a vision of her snapping a rod across his knuckles should he fail to toast the woman before him and drink down the milk in a single swallow.

He raised the mug to his lips and let a few drops flow over his tongue. It wasn't the vilest thing he'd ever put in his mouth. He took another sip and rested the mug on his knee.

"Tell me, do you make a habit of foisting unwanted beverages on hapless individuals?"

Charlotte paused in the middle of buttering a slice of bread. A slight blush spread across her cheeks, and he watched the rise and fall of her throat as she swallowed before speaking.

"I wouldn't go so far as to describe you in those terms." Her attention remained fixed on the bread, which already bore enough butter for an entire loaf.

Interesting, he thought, how adeptly she managed to skirt around the edge of his question. He took another sip of the milk, reluctant to admit to himself that he was already becoming accustomed to the flavor. "But am I not an unfortunate person? That is what hapless means, unless my esteemed tutors were well off the mark." He returned the mug to the tray, and when she still refused to meet his eyes, he spoke again. "How would you describe me?"

Her hands went still. He took advantage of her discomfiture and studied those hands, along with the slender curve of her wrist before it disappeared beneath the grey fabric of her sleeve. Suddenly, he blinked, astounded that the sight of a woman's arm should arouse so much interest in him. He'd assumed—wrongly, perhaps—that his interest in the opposite sex had died a swift and inimical death some months before.

"I wouldn't," she said, and placed the knife on the tray before passing a slice of bread to him. "It's not my place to scrutinize your portrait, regardless of the fact that you're the one offering it up for discussion."

Hartley took a bite of bread and chewed thoughtfully. The bread was a bit tough, but the butter had a sweetness that caused his mouth to water. His stomach, on the other hand, let out a rumble that could have been interpreted as a cry for more food or a rather loud protest at the prospect of something solid being delivered to its depths. It had been too long since he'd eaten a full meal to tell the difference.

"And what is your place, Miss...?" He cocked his head to one side. "Surely your parents, whoever they were, weren't so remiss in their duties as to send their child into the world bearing only a single appellation. And as you claim our imposing Mrs. Faraday as a relation, I can't imagine your surname to be something as nondescript as Smith."