Page 145 of A Shore Thing
Lucy held his gaze until he stilled. The irony faded from her face. Her expression was serious. “You’re sure to meet absolutely brilliant American artists. And they’ll meet you, for the first time. You can start fresh, as you please, how you please. With one stipulation. You must write, every single day, because I’ll miss you fiercely.” She blinked, eyelashes suddenly spiky with moisture. “We all will. But we’ll live vicariously through your adventures, and we’ll celebrate your conquests.” Her smile was watery and wistful. “Kit Griffith, our New York cousin.”
“We didn’t decide on cousin,” Kit muttered. “And I haven’t decided I’m going to New York.” His brow knotted. “Perhaps it makes sense.” It did make sense. Far more sense, for him, than a lifetime rusticating in St. Ives. A pain in his gut twisted his lips. “But not if she doesn’t want me.”
In that case, nothing made sense.
The back of his neck felt hot.
“She thought we were in love,” he said, and Lucy looked genuinely surprised.
“You and I?”
He nodded. “And she brought us together regardless.”
“Admirable, generous woman,” said Lucy, with feeling. “And perfect for you. You’d torment a jealous one.”
He flinched. “You assume I’d be unfaithful?”
“No, not if you swore fidelity. But you’re an incorrigible flirt.”
“I’m a flirt,” he confirmed, grim with self-knowledge. “You’re right. I’d flirt with a hatstand. It’s harmless.”
Lucy shrugged.
He squared his jaw. “I’d always put her first, before anyone else, before anything.”
“Before all the hatstands,” murmured Lucy. “Lovely.”
He ignored her. “I wouldn’t rest until she was certain of me.” His neck felt hotter.
Lucy sighed, thoughtful, then nodded. “I’m glad to hear it. She put your happiness before her own, after all.”
His pulse picked up. “That’s your interpretation?”
“Of course. She brought us together, thinking we were in love. That proves she loves you enough to want love for you, even if she loses by it.”
“Or it proves she doesn’t love me. She never said she did.” His voice was getting gravelly. “On the contrary, she said I’d arranged my life to prevent anyone from loving me.” He cleared his throat. “So, I can’t see that she would. Love me. She’s too intelligent. She knows me too well.”
“Kit.”
“Is that how I look at Ponsonby? How awful for him.”
“Kit.” Lucy’s expression smoothed, but her voice was still tinged with patronizing amusement. “Just…let her.”
“What?”
“Let her love you. Confess your love to her. And then, let her love you.”
He was watching Lucy’s lips move, because all at once, he found words hard to parse. Listening didn’t supply him with enough information.
“She might not.”
Lucy’s smile was gentle. After a long moment, he realized she wasn’t planning to offer him surety.
His heart was pumping lava.
Muriel might. She might not. One thing was certain. She couldn’t if he didn’t open himself up enough to give her the chance.
“So,” said Lucy at last, picking up her sketchbook, “will you go to London?”
