“I don’t,” Edith said lazily. “If I loved a man I’d want to shout it to the world.”
They were sitting on a rustic bench under the blossoming plum tree. Edith’s hands were clasped behind her head, and the winged sleeves of her gown fell back and showed her bare arms. Baldy wanted to unclasp those hands, crush them to his lips—but instead he stood up, looking over the river.
“Do you see the ducks out there? Wild ones at that. It’s a sign of spring.”
She rose and stood beside him. “And you can talk of—ducks—on a day like this?”
“Yes,” he did not look at her, “ducks are—safe.”
He heard her low laugh. “Silly boy.”
He turned, his gray eyes filled with limpid light. “Perhaps I am. But I should be a fool if I told you how I love you. Worship you. You know it, of course. But nothing can come of it, even if I were presumptuous enough to think that you—care.”
She swept out her hands in an appealing gesture. “Say it. I want to hear.”
She was adorable. But he drew back a little. “We’ve gone too far and too fast. It is my fault, of course, for being a romantic fool.”