So small that no one else could have noticed.
But Silas did.
And Eleanor did too.
She withdrew her hand.
“I suppose,” she said quietly, “you are disappointed.”
Silas looked at her.
He should have lied.
Any decent man would have lied.
Instead, he said, “You aren't what I expected.”
A few people nearby pretended not to hear.
Eleanor's expression did not change.
“And what did you expect?”
“Someone practical.”
“I am practical.”
“Plain.”
A child's gasp came from somewhere behind them.
Silas closed his eyes for half a second.
He had just realized what he had said.
Eleanor, however, laughed.
Not loudly.
Not cruelly.
Just once.
A soft, surprised laugh.
“You wanted plain.”
“Yes.”
“And I am not.”
“No.”
She looked down at her sapphire dress.
Then back at him.
“Perhaps you should have been more specific.”
“I was specific.”
“You wrote, and I quote, ‘I require a woman without vanity, unnecessary elegance, or expectations of a soft life.’”
Silas stared.
“You memorized it?”
“I found it memorable.”
His ears warmed.
“That wasn't intended to insult you.”
“It wasn't an insult.”
“It sounded like one.”
“It was an observation.”
He looked at her.
“You don't seem offended.”
“I am not easily offended.”
That answer unsettled him more than anger would have.
Eleanor stepped closer.
The crowd seemed to lean forward with her.
Silas stood perfectly still.
She was close enough now that he could smell something faintly floral beneath the dust and leather and horse sweat of the street.
Her eyes lowered.
For one deliberate second, they rested on the open collar of his slate-blue shirt.
Silas felt the movement.
She looked back into his eyes.
His heartbeat changed.
“You,” she said softly, “however, are precisely what I expected.”
His brow furrowed.
“How's that?”
“Rude.”
Someone behind them coughed to hide a laugh.
Eleanor continued.
“Stubborn.”
Silas's mouth tightened.
“Possibly arrogant.”
“Possibly?”
“Very well. Certainly.”
The laughter this time was impossible to hide.
Silas looked over her shoulder at the crowd.
Every face suddenly became very interested in the sky.
Eleanor smiled.
“And yet,” she continued, “you are also exactly as you described yourself.”
“What did I describe?”
“A man who has spent too many years convincing himself that loneliness is the same thing as peace.”
The amusement vanished from Silas's face.
For the first time since she had stepped down from the coach, Eleanor saw something vulnerable in his eyes.
It was gone almost immediately.
He looked away.
“Your luggage,” he said.
“That is your response?”
“My response is that your luggage needs to be unloaded.”
“You always change the subject when something makes you uncomfortable?”
“Yes.”
“At least you're honest.”
He looked at her again.
“Miss Vale—”
“Eleanor.”
He hesitated.
“Eleanor.”
“Yes?”
“You need to understand something.”
“I am listening.”
“I don't want a wife who expects me to become someone I'm not.”
Her expression softened.
“I don't.”
“I don't entertain much.”
“I noticed.”
“I don't attend church socials.”
“I had not planned on dragging you to one.”