she would be the widowed marchioness, someone of considerable social significance and wealth.
“But the child was saved,” he said. “Lady Prudence Moore, I mean.”
She smiled rather wanly out to sea. “She married a fisherman a few years ago,” she said, “and has two sturdy sons. She writes me sometimes, helped by her sister. She writes with impeccable correctness in a large, childish hand. And if there is a type of happiness that is prolonged, Mr. Butler, then she is living it.”
“Because of you,” he said.
She got abruptly to her feet and brushed sand off her skirt. He got up too, but his preoccupation with her painful story had made him careless. His right knee gave out from under him and he had to twist sharply in order to use his left arm to save himself from falling. It was an awkward, undignified moment that embarrassed him. And even as he straightened up he was aware of the hand she had stretched out to steady him-though she had not actually touched him.
They gazed into each other’s eyes, uncomfortably close together.
“Clumsy of me,” he said.
She lowered her hand to her side.
“When I decided to climb up here,” she said, “I did not think…” Her teeth sank into her lower lip.
“I am glad you did not,” he said quickly. “We are both maimed, Miss Jewell. But we both know the importance of refusing to live as cripples.”
She did something then that took him so much by surprise that he stood rooted to the spot, high on the rocks that divided the beaches, one foot slightly above the level of the other. She lifted her hand again and set her fingertips against his left cheek.
“We have both learned to see to the very heart of pain, Mr. Butler,” she said. “And so we have both changed- for the better, I believe. We are not cripples. We are survivors.”
She seemed to realize then what she had done, and even in the shade provided by the brim of her bonnet he could see her flush as she removed her hand hastily and rather jerkily.
“Has there been any man since-since Moore?” he asked her.
She shook her head quickly.
“No,” she said. And then after a brief pause, “Has there been any woman since your…I cannot call it an accident, can I?”
“No,” he said. “None.”
Awareness of their long, lonely celibacy pulsed between them, though neither of them put it into words. How could they? They were still virtually strangers to each other-and a man and a woman.
The embarrassment of their shared awareness of such an intimate thing took her suddenly and she turned and scrambled upward again until she stood on the crest of the rocks and looked over to the other side, one hand shading her eyes. He stood where he was for a few moments before going after her.
It was impossible to hide from himself the knowledge that there had been some revulsion in her hasty withdrawal of her hand from his cheek.
He must not even begin to think that because she was as lonely-and as sexually deprived-as he they could therefore…
He could never subject any woman to that.
And perhaps she was too damaged to have anything to offer another man.
He climbed up after her and stood beside her, not too close.
“It is awe-inspiring,” she said, gazing along the length of the main beach on which they had strolled the day before. And yet he sensed that she spoke the words that seemed appropriate to the view rather than ones that were deep-felt.
“It is,” he agreed. He had always wished he had two eyes with which to see it. But one was better than none.
The tide was almost fully out. Already it would be possible to walk about the end of the outcropping of rock on which they stood. They could have avoided the climb if they had waited.
“We can go down to the beach or back the way we came,” he said, “or we can climb to our right and get back up onto the cliff top that way. It is not a difficult climb. The choice is yours.”
When she looked at him this time, her eyes focused somewhere on a level with his chin rather than into his eye.
“It must be getting late,” she said, her voice cheerful-and impersonal. “I suppose we ought to go back by the quickest route. I have been totally unaware of passing time. I have enjoyed this afternoon very much, Mr. Butler. Thank you.”
Something irretrievable had gone from an afternoon that had seemed magical to him in many ways.
They had come too close to each other in the sharing of their stories. For a moment perhaps they had both mistaken a friendly sympathy for a physical closeness-until she had touched him and realized the impossibility of it all. And until she had touched him and he had realized how very wounded she was, how impossible it was for him to take her on emotionally even if he had been offered the chance.
He turned without another word and led the way to the cliff top and then along the footpath to the main driveway just below the cottage. They did very little talking on the way.
“I’ll walk up to the house with you,” he said when they drew level with the cottage.
“Oh, there is no need,” she assured him. “You would have to walk all the way back again.”
They stopped and looked politely and cheerfully at each other, like two strangers who had talked for a while but had nothing left to say and were eager to exchange good-byes and go their separate ways.
And really, that was all they were-strangers.
“Thank you for coming,” he said. “I have enjoyed the afternoon. I hope you enjoy the rest of your month here. I will not say good-bye. I daresay we will see each other again before you return to Bath.”
“Yes.” She smiled at his chin. “I suppose we will. Thank you for showing me places I have not seen before.”
And then she turned rather abruptly and strode off up the driveway in the direction of the house.
Sydnam stood looking after her, feeling an unwelcome dejection. She was merely a guest at the house, someone who had touched his life briefly and was now gone again. His life would not change because of his five brief encounters with her-and perhaps as many more before she returned to Bath.
But he ought not, perhaps, to have walked with her yesterday or invited her to walk with him today. He would not do it again. He did not want to go doing anything stupid, like falling in love with her.
He shook his head as if to clear it of such thoughts as she disappeared from view around a bend without looking back. He turned his steps in the direction of the cottage.
He set his hand in his pocket, remembering that her shells were still there. His fingers curled about them.
She also heard that Lord Alleyne, Lord Rannulf, and Lady Hallmere had gone riding with him one afternoon, and was amazed to learn that he could ride. But she ought not to have been surprised, she admitted to herself. He was a man who fought his disabilities in almost every way imaginable-except his disability to paint. She wondered if there was any possibility that he could fight that battle too and win. But probably not. Some things were simply impossible.
It was not an unpleasant week despite the fact that she was not allowed to remain in the nursery area as a sort of governess but was drawn into the very thick of the daily activities with everyone else, adults and children alike. They all spent a great deal of time out of doors-walking, playing cricket and other ball games, swimming, boating, building sand castles on the beach, climbing trees, playing hide-and-seek among them, climbing the lower reaches of the cliffs, having picnics.
The Earl of Rosthorn explained to her one day that most of their lives were necessarily busy through much of
