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“Georgie,” they interrupted. “Georgie, please.”
“Georgie,” she corrected herself. “You offered to come to the Peak, to convince the Barrow Prince to return with us to Twynham. Does the offer stand?”
Their smile was dark. “Yes.”
Relief washed through her. She felt steadier on her feet. “Good. Good, then. Pack for a fortnight. Sir Graham Tabor is coming up from Swadlincote. We’ll drive with him. He’s always impatient to tell new people what he knows of Pompeii, and what he knows goes on for hours, so you should brace yourself. Papa calls him Sir Grand Tour. He hates the turnpike, so you might also get one of his lectures on old Roman roads. Once we arrive, you can sightsee while I assist at the barrows. And you can use your persuasion with Mr. Aubin-Aubrey during dinners. The two of us won’t have much opportunity or cause to talk.”
She gulped air. Thank God, she’d managed to correct her course, to remember that the Peak was the destination, not this bower of bliss.
Georgie had tilted their head in thought.
“It is all settled,” she said, and added another awkward “Good.”
“Frittering.” Georgie muttered it under their breath.
“Pardon?”
“Frittering. Kissing.” Their gaze sharpened. “You think kissing is frittering. That’s why not. Kissing is on your list of pointless diversions.”
She blanched, and they released a soft, gratified laugh.
“I should have guessed sooner.” They folded their arms. “You owe me one, by the way. A diversion.”
“No, I don’t.”
“It was the condition of your coming onto my land. Frittering. Living. You said I could pick anything.”
“The picnic sufficed.”
“Says you. But it’s my condition. I didn’t decide on the picnic.”
“The kiss,” she bit out. “We already kissed. Let that suffice.”
“I couldn’t, not in good faith. It was an insufficient kiss. Also, incorrect. The answer was flints.”
They were laughing again.
Her jaw clenched, and she stepped up to them, jabbing with her finger.
“I will not permit any frittering while we’re in the Peak. The trip is too important.”
They glanced down at her finger, which had drilled into their shoulder.
“Understood.” Their brows had a wicked slant. “I’ll behave.” They paused. “Until after.”
The heat of their body radiated through the thin fabric of their shirt, sending a warm pulse through her fingertip. She could smell their laundry soap, and that light balsam fragrance emanating from their skin.
She retracted herself.
“After,” she agreed, voice hoarse. “We can fritter however you like.”
Their smile was just as wicked. “My intention is to pick something we both like. Any ideas?”
Even their teeth were unfairly attractive.
She forced her gaze up from their mouth.
“There’s nothing we both like,” she whispered.
