Page 54 of A Shore Thing

He shrugged a shoulder. “She’s farming stock.”

The dismissive statement snapped her spine to attention.

“You want more polish?” She glared, curling her fingers in the grass. “I’m farming stock myself. The vulgarity comes out sometimes. Consider yourself warned.”

His searching gaze roamed over her. “I wasn’t voicing a personal objection. As I’m sure you know, farm chores begin before dawn and end after dusk. Her family couldn’t spare her.”

Oh. Well, that explained it. Lord, she was testy.

She gave a chagrined nod. “You taught her how to ride?”

“I did. After she convinced her father of the practicality. She sells eggs and cheese in town, and now she doesn’t have to wait for the cart or walk the miles there and back.”

“But there’s the expense.”

His gaze shifted.

“You didn’t charge her.” Muriel’s eyes widened. “You gave her the Rover? Is she one of your…?”

His gaze returned to meet hers. “You exaggerate my romantic profligacy.”

“So financial profligacy is your line? My cousin was a shopkeeper. He made his customers pay ready money for every matchstick.” She pressed with her knuckles until she felt moist grains of dirt on her skin. Something bid her continue. “And by his calculations, I worked myself more into his debt each day.”

“I thought you were farming stock.”

“This was after the farm.”

He was looking at her too keenly. She gave herself a shake and winced as every muscle twinged.

“Miss Curnow,” she said, bringing them back to topic. “She isn’t anything to you. And you gave her a bicycle.”

“It’s a bicycle I used to rent out. I’m not losing much.” He tossed his peaked cap onto the grass and scrubbed a hand through his hair. His expression was almost dreamy. “And she’s gaining time.”

“Because she can make her deliveries faster.”

“And no one knows how much faster.” A smile broke across his face. “She can skim minutes from the time she saves and linger on the High Street.”

Muriel stared. “That matters to you?”

Such a small, nearly immaterial thing. A girl winning for herself a few precious minutes. Gaining time to look in a shop window or talk with a friend.

He swatted at a pollen-drugged bee, which continued its discombobulated loops.

“All the time in the world wouldn’t mean she’d be allowed to ride with the Mutton Wheelers.” He tipped his head. “Tootle off with a half dozen men on iron grasshoppers? Never.” He laughed. “Iron grasshoppers. That’s what her father calls bicycles.”

“I was your last resort.” Muriel rose to kneeling, over the protest of her knees. It was so obvious. How could she have imagined Clarinda Chiswick volunteering in her stead? What leisure allowed, propriety forbid.

She’d focused on Griffith’s ability to magnetize women and ignored the hurdles in their way.

“Last resort,” he agreed. “Also, first resort. There were a few middle resorts, artists of independent means and scandalous reputations. But the athletic one is off to France, and I suspect the others would have turned me down.”

Her brow crinkled. “Why did you let Deighton goad you into this?”

Emotion flickered in his eyes, there and then gone. “Arrogance, stupidity, and righteous indignation.”

He said it smoothly.

And that very smoothness pricked her intuition. That, and the charming way his features shifted into an even more handsome arrangement. It was too charming.