Page 77 of Hearts of Locke Hill

His brow rose. “An Englishman with a hoop and stick?”

“An Englishwoman with a skipping rope,” she added.

“A whip and top,” he said.

Her lips quirked, continuing with their list offoolishtoys. “A bag of marbles?”

He smiled and glanced her way. “Just so.”

Silence settled between them as the rain pattered on. He took a breath as if to speak but did not.

“Yes?” she asked.

He paused another moment. Just long enough for her cheeks to grow warm again. Infernal man.

He placed his hands in his pockets. “I was only considering what you asked me yesterday, after the ink and before the … swim.”

She closed her eyes tightly. Perhaps if she closed them tightly enough, she might disappear. It didn’t work, because she heard his next words.

“You asked if I remember the day I left.”

She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. “I can’t believe I did so. You obviously don’t or didn’t. That is, it was ages ago, and what does it matter—”

“It matters.” His response was abrupt and rough.

She frowned, turning to him. His gaze steadied on her, his eyes penetrating beneath his dark brows.

He took another breath, and his eyes softened. “Of course I remember that day.”

“Oh no.”

His lips hitched, as if fighting a smile. “Oh yes.” His gaze sobered once more. “It was the day you made me promise that you would never become a wife.”

Violet’s mouth dropped open. Had she? It sounded like her. Drat. Her father had inspired that command.

The irony.

Cyril continued. “And you asked me what I’d been doing all these years—without you.”

Something in her panicked. Did she want to know anything beyond what he’d already shared? “I remember you promised you would send me your class notes.” She folded her arms. “And I never received so much as an algebraic formula from you.” She turned her head away, her voice roughening to a whisper. “Not a ‘Dear Violet.’ Not one iota that you remembered I had existed quite steadily in your life once.” She cleared her throat and attempted to brighten the increasingly dank atmosphere. “Did you know that enough time has gone by to nearly equal the number of years we were in each other’s almost daily company? Isn’t that remarkable? I have gone without your presence nearly as long as when I believed I could not ever do without it.” Her breath held as he said nothing. She was revealing too much. She shook away the erratic thrum of her pulse. She turned to him as he remained looking out the window. “We grow up, though, don’t we? I grew up and learned to rely on myself. My ideas, my research, my experience. I was better for it.”

He dropped his gaze to his hands resting on the window casing. “I knew you would be.”

Anger like fire burst through her chest. “Did you? How wonderful for you. On my part, I was terrified. Lost. Drowning.”

His head lifted, and he opened his mouth to speak.

“No,” she said, standing taller. “It was only a year or two. When I finally accepted that you were not going to write to me or visit my family, I rallied. I wasn’t entirely alone, was I? I had my friends and my wits and a champion for a mother.”

“You’ve done well.”

“Do not patronize me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” He shook his head at the glazing and took a deep breath. “Your mother wrote to me.”

She turned sharply. “What?”

“At school. She asked me …” He turned to face her, his gaze searching. “She asked me why I had not written. And told me you missed your sparring partner.”