Page 52 of A Stormy Season

Chapter Sixteen

When the song ended, Jane took Luke’s arm and said, “I think I will get some lemonade.”

“I will get it for you,” he said. “Wait here.”

Penelope was speaking with an older gentleman and Jane was content to glance around at the crowd, wishing she had suggested to Luke that they dance the next dance together. Now that he was fetching her a cup of lemonade, she’d have to talk to him.

He brought her a cup, also carrying a cup for himself, and they stood side by side watching as the next dance began.

“You are a very good dancer,” Jane said, carrying on with her plan as she smiled up at him, her lips touching the rim of her cup.

Luke’s gaze was drawn to her mouth, and she saw his throat bob as he swallowed.

“You are a very capable dancer as well,” he said.

Was he blushing?

“I thank you. Dancing is something I’ve always enjoyed. Do you enjoy it? Or is it only something you do because it’s expected?”

“You always strike at the heart of things, don’t you?” he said with a bit of a wry grin. “I mostly enjoy it, but I also do it because it’s expected of a gentleman, as we are to assume that we are pleasing the lady by asking her to dance.”

“Yes, that is what everyone assumes, and correctly, I daresay.” Again, Jane made sure to smile and gaze at him with wide eyes. “And yes, I do like to strike at the heart of things without beating about the bush, hinting and vaguely implying things. Most conversations are dull beyond my patience and so I have to strike deep to get at anything worthwhile.”

Luke was staring intently into her eyes now, leaning closer, as he said, “You are not like other women, Jane Gilchrist.”

“I hope that is a compliment.”

“It is, since most women—forgive me—are terribly uninteresting.”

She laughed, a quick burst of mirth, and then her stomach flipped as she realized he was implying that she was terribly interesting.

“Well, I cannot prattle on and on about muslins and whether long sleeves are in fashion, even though I do work in a clothing shop. And if someone talks endlessly about the condition of the roads and how much it has rained this spring, my mind starts to wander and then I seem rude, which is not my intention.”

“What do you like to talk of?”

“I suppose I like to talk of important things, such as how the last novel I read made me feel, especially if the other person has read the same novel, and I want to know how it made them feel. And about whether the Psalmist is being literal when he says, ‘I will walk through the fire and not be burned,’ and ‘no weapon formed against me shall prosper.’ Does that mean nothing bad will happen to me? For I know it cannot mean that.”

Luke’s blue eyes seemed to sparkle. “So those are the things that go through your head.”

“Among other things, of course.”

“What else do you like to talk about?”

“No, no. It is your turn to say what you like to talk about, Luke Watley,” she said, addressing him by his first and last name as he had done to her moments before.

They were facing each other, standing quite close in a shadowy spot against the wall, which must have been why no one approached or interrupted them.

“I like to talk of . . . You will think it is all exceedingly dull.”

“Nevertheless, you must tell me honestly, as I told you.”

“Very well. I like to discuss political viewpoints, and I typically can see both sides of an argument. I discuss hunting, and farming tools and methods are interesting to me, as I like to help my tenants if I can. But I also like to discuss theology, what is meant by certain Bible passages, and the purpose of our lives while we are here.”

He wasn’t a feather-headed bumpkin who thought of nothing besides hunting and riding and gaming and where he might get his next drink of port. She supposed she’d always known that, but it was good to get confirmation.

It hardly mattered. But while she was pretending to be in love with him, it did matter, and it made it much easier to pretend.

The music was starting. She wondered if she should suggest that they dance again, since their conversation was making Jane’s heart beat a little faster—too fast for her own comfort. If she could feel so attracted to him such a short time after being angry with him, how was she to get through the next few months?