The Sins of the Wolf - Anne Perry [22]
“A singular man, by your account,” Mary said with interest. “And it seems you know him very well. Is he aware of it?”
“Monk?” Hester asked with surprise. “I have no idea. Yes, I suppose so. We have seldom minced words with one another.”
“How interesting.” There was not the slightest sarcasm in Mary’s voice, only the most acute fascination. “And is he in love with you, this Monk?”
Hester’s face burned. “Certainly not!” She denied it hotly, and her throat tightened as she said the words. For one idiotic moment she thought she was going to cry. It would be mortifying, and thoroughly stupid. She must clear up the misapprehension which Mary quite obviously bore. “We have been friends in certain issues, because we believed in the same causes and were both prepared to fight against what was wrong,” she said firmly. “Where matters of love are concerned, he has no interest in women like me. He prefers”—she swallowed, memory sharp and peculiarly painful—“women like my sister-in-law, Imogen. She is very pretty indeed, very gentle, and knows how to be charming without clumsy flattery, but how to make one feel the desire to protect her. Not that she is ineffectual, you understand.”
“I see,” Mary agreed, nodding her head. “We have all known women like that at some time in our lives. They smile at a man, and instantly he feels better and handsomer, and definitely braver than before.”
“Exactly!”
“So your Monk is a fool where women are concerned.” It was a statement, not a question.
Hester chose not to answer that. “And I prefer someone like Oliver Rathbone,” she went on, not really sure how much truth there was in her words. “He is a most distinguished barrister….”
“Well-bred, no doubt,” Mary said flatly. “And respectable?”
“Not especially, that I know,” Hester replied defensively. “However, his father is one of the nicest people I have ever met. I feel comfortable merely to recall his face.”
Mary’s eyes widened. “Indeed. I misunderstood. So Mr. Rathbone is not without interest. Tell me more.”
“He is also extremely clever, in a different kind of way. He is very sure of himself, and he has a dry sense of humor. He is never boring, and I admit I do not often know what he is really thinking, but I am quite certain it is not always what he says.”
“And is he in love with you? Or do you not know that either?”
Hester smiled smugly, that sudden impulsive kiss coming back as sharply as if it had been a week ago instead of a year. “I think that is too strong a term, but he has given me occasion to think he finds me not unattractive,” she replied.
“Oh excellent!” Mary said with evident pleasure. “And these two gentlemen dislike each other, I trust?”
“Certainly,” Hester agreed with a satisfaction which surprised her. “But I don’t think it has anything to do with me—or at least, very little,” she added.
“This is really most intriguing,” Mary said happily. “I am sorry our acquaintance will be so short I shall not see the end of this.”
Hester felt her face growing hot again. Her mind was in total confusion. She had spoken of her feelings as if it were a romance. Did she wish it were? She was embarrassed for her foolishness. She could not possibly marry Monk, even if he were to ask her, which he would not. They would quarrel all the time. There was far too much in him she really did not like. She had not mentioned it to Mary—it would be disloyal—but there was a streak of cruelty in him which appalled her; there were dark areas of his character, impulses she did not trust. She could not commit herself to such a man, not as anything more than a friend.
Or would she marry Oliver Rathbone, if he were to yield to any emotion powerful enough to make him ask her? She ought to. It would be a far better offer than most women ever received, certainly any woman at all at her age. She was nearly thirty, for heaven’s sake. Only heiresses could expect marriage at that time of life. And far from being an heiress, she was obliged