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“We did.” He fidgeted with the cuffs of his coat, then laced his fingers together before him, elbows still on the arms of the chair. “Andrew even stayed the year with me in Ireland when I visited our estate there. He was with me when I first met your brother.”
“It is a good thing, I’m thinking, to have a friend as close as that. I am afraid I cannot boast of the same. Though my brother puts up with my company most of the time.” She looked away from Simon, her gaze taking in the others in the room. “Your sister and her friend are lovely.”
“They have a close attachment, too.” Simon considered that fact as his sister and Emma held a book between them, their heads bent close together while their husbands spoke with each other. “We are lucky in our friendships. Is there anyone in particular you will miss while away from Dublin, Miss Frost?”
Her gaze met his, and a trace of sadness appeared in her dark eyes. “A few very old friends of the family is all. Most of my closest friends are married and spend their Christmas season in the country, or in England with their husbands.”
“Ah.” He studied her again, for the first time wondering exactly how old she was. And why she was unmarried. She was pretty, with those soulful eyes and rich, shining hair that looked soft as silk in the candlelight. Older than his sister, he would guess.
“Five and twenty.”
Simon’s mouth popped open without him meaning for it to, then he said, “I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean to pry—” And he was certain he hadn’t asked her age aloud. A gentleman asking a lady’s age? Absolute rudeness. He’d admonished his little brother for it only the day before.
“You didn’t,” she assured him with a smirk. “It was an easy enough thing, to know what you were thinking. I am five and twenty, and unpromised. Because you wondered about that, too.”
Presumptuous. That’s what she was. Yet he couldn’t deny her words. “I apologize for being so easily read, Miss Frost.”
She waved aside the apology. “Age isn’t anything to be ashamed of, to my way of thinking. It is merely a number, and if we are lucky, we will count many years instead of few.”
“That is a philosophical way to look at it.”
“An honest way, too.” Miss Frost mimicked the way he sat with her elbows on the arms of the chair and her hands clasped before her. “What was your favorite thing about Ireland when you visited?”
The abrupt question made his mind halt a moment in confusion before finding the right path in their new conversation. “My favorite thing? I spent most of my time in the country, at our house in Donabate. But when we visited Dublin, the journey was always enjoyable. The land is breathtaking.”
That answer satisfied her, given the way her smile softened. “I have always found my homeland beautiful. The people are what I enjoy the most, though. The talking and the singing, the storytelling. I never passed a dull evening among friends in Ireland.”
Josephine had approached as they spoke, Andrew with her. “Will you tell us some Irish stories while you are with us, Miss Frost?”
Andrew let his wife sit on the short sofa across from Simon and Miss Frost’s chairs before collapsing with far less grace onto its other side. “Irish stories?” He shook his head. “They are all about some white-headed warrior named Finn, if memory serves me right.”
“Finn McCool,” Simon said at the exact same time as Miss Frost said the same in Irish, “Fionn mac Cumhaill.” She exchanged a look with him, and he shrugged somewhat sheepishly.
Josephine laughed. “If this Finn person made an impression on Andrew and Simon both, his stories must be exceptional.”
“They are the legendary backbone of Ireland,” Miss Frost confirmed with a nod. “Much like King Arthur is here in England.”
Andrew lifted both his hands to speak, waving his fingers about as he said in a false-whisper, “Including the idea that Finn McCool never died, but fell asleep in a cave surrounded by his immortal warriors. One day, he will awake and defend Ireland in the hour of its greatest need.”
The Irish woman laughed and shook a finger at Andrew. “You best be careful, Sir Andrew. More than one fight has started in the name of Ireland’s greatest hunter and warrior.”
“Luca,” Andrew called over his shoulder, unfettered by any worry of manners at the moment. “Luca, are there any Sicilian legends about warriors who never die?”
The ambassador tucked his hands behind his back as he approached, his expression thoughtful. “You remember I was taught primarily by monks, do you not?”
“Truly?” Miss Frost leaned forward, her eyes wide and expression one of fascination. “What a unique upbringing.”
Luca shrugged. “Aside from the fact that they did not hold with such superstitions, you must remember that my country’s history dates back to the days of the Roman Empire. One could argue that Hercules is our best example of an undying hero.”
“I’d forgotten about him,” Andrew said, turning the right way around again.
“How could anyone forget Hercules?” Luca stood behind Andrew and Josephine’s couch, his expression curious.
“Arthur, Finn, and Hercules. Wouldn’t they get up to trouble if they all turned up at once?” Josephine’s eyes sparkled. “You must tell me all about your Finn McCool, Miss Frost.”
“If you wish.” Miss Frost looked up at Luca. “I have heard stories about Lord Farleigh and Sir Andrew’s youth, causing mischief. Was there any of that for you, my lord, surrounded as you were by monks?”
“Not as much as I liked,” the conte answered with a grin. “My wife says I am lacking in embarrassing childhood stories.”
