Page 46 of A Lady’s Guide to Mystery and Mischief

“Right.” She kept her gaze averted from his, knowing she’d blush if she met his gaze. “Or London, if we decide to settle here. Can I pick some of this? It would be perfect for—”

“Farah,” Grey said. She had no choice but to turn to him then, curious at his sudden gravity. “I’ve a favor to ask of you.”

*

He’d offered to take her out to the garden because the mere mention of his grandfather had been a mistake. It was all he could think to suggest in the moment, a bid to prevent her from questioning him further. But now, seeing the excitement radiating off her, he realized how badly he’d wanted her here all along. Here, in his garden, the part of Montgomery House most precious to him.

God, he was a fool. That was the one thing time had not taken away from him. He’d lost everything else, but foolishness remained his stubborn companion.

“What is it?” Farah prompted.

“I—”

How could he go about asking her this? Would she look down on him? Think him selfish?

“Why don’t we sit?” She nodded at the stone bench that sat under the shade of the willow tree. Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Grey nodded, following her down the path and taking a seat. Farah propped herself beside him, knees tilted in his direction. “Go on.”

“I care about this house,” Grey began, already wishing he were better with his words.

“Of course you do,” she said, ever-agreeable. “You grew up here, after all.”

“And I know Francis has every right to come here. To—to bring you here.”

A puzzled frown pulled at her lips. “Is the house not yours?”

“It was left to us both,” he said. “My grandmother hoped it would be left to me, but—that doesn’t matter.”

But his grandfather had refused, even when Leila had pointed out how paltry Grey’s inheritance was compared to Francis’s. Begging had been pointless, of course. If it had been up to Grey, he wouldn’t have bothered.

“I do intend to buy it off him,” Grey told her.

“Why haven’t you?” Farah asked. This close, Grey noticed that the buttons trailing down her bodice were a very soft peach.

“Francis and I have yet to settle on a fair price,” Grey forced out. Which, really, was a polite way of saying that Francis enjoyed hanging his half of Montgomery House over Grey’s head. It didn’t matter that Francis could have used the money to pay off his debts—it was far more important for him to continue to terrorize Grey after their—scuffle.

“You don’t want us to come here,” Farah said, the harsh words somehow transformed into something gentle.

Grey sighed. “Yes. That is—you can come here, of course. But—”

“But you don’t want us to live here.”

“Yes.” Grey turned his attention to the garden, wanting to avoid the judgment he was certain would be plain on her face. “I can’t bear to lose Montgomery House, too.”

Next to him, Farah let out a small sound of despair. “Oh, Grey. You poor thing.”

Grey was surprised to see that her dark eyes were glossy with emotion, and that her hands were clutched against her chest. “That’s the second time you’ve called me that.”

“That’s because you are a poor thing!” she burst out. “Anyone would think so.”

“Indeed? You’re the only person I’ve heard it from,” he said, trying with some desperation to cover up the spike of feeling that had risen in his chest. God, he hated how easy it had been for him to return to feeling things. He missed the stoicism he’d known before Farah Rafiq had burst into his office with her pearly buttons and ridiculous demands.

Without warning, Farah cupped his hands in hers. She must have discarded her gloves in the parlor, the sensation of her skin on his hot enough to burn.

“I promise,” she said, “that no matter what Francis says, we will not live here.”

One, two, three—the freckles on her nose seemed to be infinite in number. His gaze dragged down, lingering on her parted lips before traveling to her eyes. The unbridled dedication in them made him want to ask another favor of her.

Please don’t marry Francis.