He didn’t really know how to reply to that.
In many ways, he was glad that he did not have to air his emotions and that he could keep them inside. There had been so many painful ones about his parents’ situation. He did not know if he could ever let them out, for if he did, he wasn’t entirely certain he could ever put them back in.
And it wasn’t always easy to keep himself in line. But he did. With a hard hand. He’d never forget the night his mother slipped away…leaving him.
For love.
His mother had run away for love, abandoning him and his brothers. And whatever gentleness his father had had was broken.
Love was the devil. And he was glad he’d never feel it.
It was so strange to him that a lady as sensible as Beatrice did not seem as against love as he was. Will was tempted to ask, but it seemed a dangerous road. It was enough to know she had no wish to marry. She loved her independence, and that would keep them each on their own paths…
She gazed at him strangely, a depth and contemplation to her that had not been there a moment before.
They had wandered onto potentially dangerous ground. “I am not here for such considerations,” he said lightly. “I shall never know if burying our emotions behind our wit is folly.” He upturned his lips into a slow smile. “But I do have the knowledge of a boxer. Did you wish to begin your lessons today?”
Her gaze lit with excitement. “Indeed, Your Grace. How could I not wish a bout of fisticuffs with you? We have bantered so often with words that I think it most suitable we should now use our fists.”
“Lady Beatrice, you and I shall never truly fight with fists.”
“Why?” she asked before she waggled her brows at him. “Do you think you shall overpower me?”
“No, no. I have already considered more than once that you could easily turn out the victor, for you are so determined,” he assured happily. “And as they say, it does not matter the size of the dog in the fight, Lady Beatrice.”
She arched a sardonic brow. “I beg your pardon?”
He asserted, “It matters the size of the fight in said dog.”
“That is the most…well, accurate statement I think I’ve ever heard, even if it is terribly unpoetic.”
He laughed. “I am not a poet, even if I admire poets. I’m glad you find the idea apt.”
“And I am glad that you admire poets, even if you are not quoting them as gentlemen did before.” She let out a wistful sigh. “I think that reading poetry is one of the best ways to sharpen our minds.”
“As do I,” he agreed easily. He’d read so much of the stuff it was a miracle he did not speak in verse or iambic pentameter by default.
“Do you really?” she queried, her cheeks flushed pink with pleasure.
He quite liked that look on her face… Would she look thus after a kiss? Eyes sparkling, skin aglow…
He cleared his throat. “I spend hours reading. It is one of the great pleasures of my life. I stay up every night reading after I finish my work. You know, I did read all your pamphlets,” he said.
“Did you, by God?” she blurted before folding her arms just under her breasts, which plumped them against the line of her bodice. “I was certain that you threw them all in the fire.”
“No,” he said. “I would never burn words. The very idea! That is the most horrific accusation you have yet made at me.”
She smiled, relenting. “Forgive me. I realize that truly was beyond the pale.”
“Indeed it was,” he said with great seriousness before grinning again.
How was it he smiled so much in her presence?
She hesitated—an oddity for her—then rushed, “What did you think of my pamphlets? Not much, clearly.”
He groaned inwardly. She’d never let him live down his short replies to her petitions.
“I think they are all passionate,” he said truthfully, “and all make good points. You are correct; you need someone to give them…”