“Not at all,” he said. “They’re mostly stories about you.”
“Me?” I gasped.
He laughed. “I might have made a slight exaggeration or two. I have always been a bit of a storyteller.”
Him, a storyteller? How the idea irked me.Iwas the storyteller! And yet, because of him, any words I managed these days were absolute rubbish. My heroine had been stuck in her tower for weeks! Weeks, I tell you!
“Shall I share about the first time we met?” Rowan’s mouth slid up on one side, and his gaze settled warmly on my own.
My ire melted beneath it like a traitor succumbing to the enemy without a fight. Was . . . was he flirting with me? Unsure of what to do with such information, I cleared my throat. “I don’t think it’s necessary to reminisce. After all, we both were too young to remember that particular moment.” I quickly shot a kind smile Mr. Clodwick’s way, worried this interaction was making him uncomfortable. I shouldn’t have been worried. His chin had fallen to his chest, and he had clearly nodded off.
Lovely. I couldn’t even encourage his affection by making him jealous. He had yet to show any concern about my health, and the few private conversations we’d had since his arrival had all been inquiries about my aunt and Thomas Hope. Our marriage was going to be rather interesting at this rate.
“I have never heard the story of how you two met,” Elizabeth said. “Do tell us.”
I glowered at her. Elizabeth wasn’t the type to get sentimental. She needn’t start now.
“It was a perfect summer day,” Rowan began.
“Spring,” I corrected.
“Aw, so you do remember the story.” He winked.
My eyes widened. Was he allowed to wink at me? Wasn’t that against the rules for a childhood nemesis? “I—er—I remember what my parents told me about that day.”
Rowan grinned. “Then by all means, please interrupt if you recall any details I get wrong or unintentionally leave out.” His smiles were full of charm and . . . and . . . he was directing them at me as if I were once again Miss First Page.
While I was left gawking, Rowan began his story. “On this delightful spring day, the Delafield family departed from their London Season and traveled to a house party my parents were hosting. This was the Delafield’s second trip to Ashworth Hall, but this was the first time they had brought with them their two little girls.”
“Darling little things,” I added in an exaggerated voice.
“Indeed, with brown curls and cherubic faces. The youngest, in particular, had the most stunning pair of celestial blue eyes.” He met my gaze for good measure. “Even at two and a half years of age, I was enraptured.” His voice dropped, and a shiver ran down my back.
The moment passed, and he quickly recovered—though I could not say the same.
“Of course,” he continued, “those blue eyes were soaked with tears after being confined in a carriage. I had the perfect solution. I extended my arms to baby Arabella and cried, ‘Hold me, hold me!’”
Tabitha broke out into a giggle.
“Mrs. Delafield was quite confused by my childish babblings. ‘You want me to hold you?’” she asked.
“‘No, hold me!’ I demanded, pointing to the baby. The adults laughed when they finally understood that I had flipped my words as young children often do. Then they praised the charming young boy before them for his desire to help.”
“You were two!” I interrupted with a laugh. “All little boys are charming at that age.”
“But I must have been the most charming, because you were not at all happy until I had you in my arms. To everyone’s surprise, you ceased your crying, grinned, and squealed with delight.”
“I did not squeal.”
Rowan perched on the arm of the sofa next to me. “Thatishow the story is told.”
“Very well, I squealed.” I cast my gaze to the ceiling, surprised how involved I was getting in the story.
Rowan picked up the story again. “The entire house party went on this way. Every time baby Arabella cried, they brought her to young Master Ashworth to cheer her back up. On each occasion, to their delight, it worked. Our parents could not believe how effortlessly the two children took to each other. There was something fitting about them, and the way they were drawn to each other’s sides. No one could fathom how or why, but they were clearly meant to be.” He dragged out those last few words as if he were telling them more to himself than the rest of us. His sudden somber tone quickly shifted back to one of cheerful storyteller. “And that, my friends, is how we became promised to be married. For the story goes, that I am the only one truly capable of making Miss Arabella Delafield happy.”
I had heard the story a dozen times, but it struck me differently this time. How strange it was that we had gone from such eager playmates to such enemies in our adolescence. Regardless, our parents had been wrong about us being a perfect pairing. It had been many, many years since Rowan Ashworth had been capable of making me happy.
My time with Mr. Prologue, excluded.