Page 51 of A Lady’s Guide to Mystery and Mischief

Grey spared them a quick glance. They were bloodied, evidence of how hard he’d intended to hit Francis. The pain barely registered—he was far too distracted by the choice Farah had made to come to him.

Not to Francis. Him.

“Think of the carnage you’d have stumbled upon if he had hit me,” Francis said.

Grey thought he saw Farah roll her eyes. “You’d have been in good hands with your companion, I’m sure.”

Francis had the sense to color in embarrassment at that. “I—”

“You’re welcome to return to the ball,” Farah interrupted. “I’d like to have a word with Mr. Montgomery.”

Francis seemed almost disappointed. “You’re sure?”

“I am.” Her eyes followed Francis as he began to walk. “Before you leave, Mr. Beaumont—”

He perked, facing her with a hopeful smile.

“I do hope you’ll be more discreet once we’re wed,” she said, her voice wavering on the word wed. “I’d rather not be embarrassed, if it’s all the same to you.”

“I—no—well—” Francis sputtered.

Grey shook his head. Francis heeded the silent warning, straightening his jacket with a sharp tug and wishing them a hoarse good evening. Then, he was gone.

“You might have gone with him,” Grey said, bewildered by Farah’s behavior. He had no idea what she was thinking scolding Francis in front of him like that.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re hurt.”

Unused to being so blatantly fussed over, he said, “It’s only a scratch.”

Farah huffed in frustration. “That’s not the point. You’re hurt, and we should leave.”

“Leave?” Grey echoed. In that moment, it finally sank in. Tonight, she was choosing him over Francis in every way. Despite her long-term plans, despite the scene she’d stumbled upon, she was choosing to remain by his side. “What about the thief?”

“I don’t know,” she said, irritated for reasons that eluded him. “We’ll have to revisit the subject later. I’m cold, and we should leave.”

Quickly and wordlessly, Grey removed his jacket and placed it over her shoulders, concealing her wings. “What of the ball?”

She pulled the jacket tighter around her, her frame drowning in the fabric. “What of it?”

“You seemed—excited to be here,” he said slowly.

“I was. It’s my first masked ball.”

“Then we can stay,” he said, desperate to please her. “We can go back inside, and—”

“No, Grey,” she said, the feathery horns in her hair fluttering with the force of her response. “I want to leave. I want to—we should take care of your hand.”

Grey let out a long exhale. “If that’s what you want, it’s what we’ll do.”

She uttered a soft, “Thank you.”

Neither of them moved, which prompted him to ask, “Are you all right?”

“I’m not the one with the bleeding knuckles.”

“No, but—”

Farah peered around the small clearing. “I have questions, but I think the conversation is better had elsewhere.”