The conversation might have remained as effortlessly light and joking with that unexpected – and unexpectedly pleasant – camaraderie, even with her hand still at his shoulder, if only she had left those last two words unsaid.
For some. It seemed designed to exclude her from the category, of course; and logically Endymion was perfectly aware that they had not worked, that nothing had come of that early dabbling with courtship, but she had done exceptionally well in one casual breath to make him sound not good enough, he thought. And he might have been a second son with less of an inheritance to come than his brother, but he had been above her in station. So if anyone had been allowed to be choosy, it ought to have been him – but no, although her remark had stung, he could hardly even hold it against her. Because utterly nothing about Miss Potts said social climber. (Perhaps if her name had been Jasmine or Rose or Wisteria...)
He almost sighed. But one should allow a Thistle to be thorny, if she liked; and it ought not to matter to him. After all, it wasn’t as though he had been yearning after her since those days. He had scarcely thought of her at all. And now, if one were to be ruthless about it (Endymion was rarely ruthless), she was even less of a prospect than she had been, if she was settled into spinsterhood.
He had missed her wince as his own face fell, and he wasn’t sure quite how to breeze past it, either. “I don’t know about that,” he said, a beat too late and without quite the same amusement; instead, Endymion concentrated all his energy into standing up again, setting a hand on her arm for just a moment of the process and removing it as swiftly as he became sure he could balance himself again. “But – thank you anyway. I’m sorry to have troubled you.” For her help here, he meant.
For some. It seemed designed to exclude her from the category, of course; and logically Endymion was perfectly aware that they had not worked, that nothing had come of that early dabbling with courtship, but she had done exceptionally well in one casual breath to make him sound not good enough, he thought. And he might have been a second son with less of an inheritance to come than his brother, but he had been above her in station. So if anyone had been allowed to be choosy, it ought to have been him – but no, although her remark had stung, he could hardly even hold it against her. Because utterly nothing about Miss Potts said social climber. (Perhaps if her name had been Jasmine or Rose or Wisteria...)
He almost sighed. But one should allow a Thistle to be thorny, if she liked; and it ought not to matter to him. After all, it wasn’t as though he had been yearning after her since those days. He had scarcely thought of her at all. And now, if one were to be ruthless about it (Endymion was rarely ruthless), she was even less of a prospect than she had been, if she was settled into spinsterhood.
He had missed her wince as his own face fell, and he wasn’t sure quite how to breeze past it, either. “I don’t know about that,” he said, a beat too late and without quite the same amusement; instead, Endymion concentrated all his energy into standing up again, setting a hand on her arm for just a moment of the process and removing it as swiftly as he became sure he could balance himself again. “But – thank you anyway. I’m sorry to have troubled you.” For her help here, he meant.
