Simon nodded and started for the door—
“Fancourt.”
He paused and glanced back.
Sir Walter leaned against his desk, arms crossed over his chest, all the humor and nonchalance drained from his face. Only tightness remained. Mayhap a hint of emotion too, as peculiar as that seemed. “You did right in coming to me. I like to think myself the best friend your father ever had.” His eyes moistened. “I can be the same to you.” Some of the loneliness ebbed and flowed from Simon’s chest. He nodded again, lips lifting with a smile of gratitude.
Between himself and Sir Walter, perhaps they had a fighting chance.
Perhaps they could win the game, after all.
“You did not visit your aunt, did you?”
She had expected many declarations from Alexander Oswald—compliments on her dress, delights in seeing her again, disappointments concerning her hasty departure.
But not this.
“One thing I am learning to expect from you, Mr. Oswald.” She swept further into her town house parlor, still rankled—if not a bit amused—that he had arrived without warning. “The unexpected.”
“Your praise of me is music.” He stepped around the tea table, wearing an unusual red floral coat, a silk cravat, and a smug grin on his face, as if he knew something she did not know he knew.
Which was likely true.
“Yet still, you leave my question unanswered.”
“I would not deign to defend myself against someone who deems me a liar.”
“We are all liars, to some degree, Miss Whitmore.” He stepped nearer. In one swift movement, he caught her hands and pulled her closer, his clothes scented of cigar smoke and traces of vanilla. “Even you.”
She wanted to pull away.
She should have.
But something kept her still. Perhaps because he was right. She lied about everything. She had secrets no one knew about, and the lies bubbled forth like hot water ready to evaporate into listening ears.
“What are they?” Closer, a breath away. His eyes sought hers, then dipped to her lips, then followed her hairline before they settled back to her gaze. “How many are there?”
“I do not know what you are talking about.”
“You know better than I do.”
“Mr. Oswald—”
“Do not tell me.” His eyes laughed at her. “Let me discover them myself. It shall not be easy. Complicated souls, like you and I, never are.” For the second time, he glanced at her lips. “But I will know your secrets, Miss Whitmore.” He leaned forward—
She stepped backward into a chair, withdrawing from the hands clasping hers.
His fingers tightened.
Her gaze snapped to his in question, heart gaining uneven speed.
Then, as if realizing his blunder, he grinned the same time his hold released. “Forgive me, Miss Whitmore. I fear passion is an attribute all Oswalds must battle. With a less endearing object, it could have been reined in more easily. You are a feat.”
She should have been flattered.
Mayhap she was.
But the need to escape the room—to escapehim—overwhelmed her thoughts. Had she truly been ready to trust him with her secret? Was she so lonely? Was she so much a fool?
