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“Ah. Mine is emerald green.”
“Could it be anything else, when you’re an Irish girl?”
“Woman.”
He cocked his head to one side. “An Irish woman. I stand corrected.”
She nodded once, sharply, and released a shaky breath. “Well now, my lord, we know each other’s favorite colors.”
“A sound way to begin a friendship.”
She looked up, and up a little more, to study his profile. He was quite tall. But then, so was the duke. Her brother was quite average when it came to height. What must it be like, to always be eye-level with most people’s heads? She nearly asked him. Instead, she asked something more impertinent.
“Is that what you’re up to? Trying to make us friends?”
“Have you any objection to such a thing? You are rather embroiled in a wager made amongst the people I hold dearest in the world. That gives you a sound step in that direction.”
That creeping warmth came over her again. The one that always seemed to happen when the two of them were near one another for more than a moment. Did he feel it, too?
“A friendship with a future duke is nothing to sniff at, I suppose.”
He laughed outright that time, a sharp, quick laugh that seemed to surprise him as much as it did her, given the raise to his eyebrows and his wide grin. “When you put it that way, I sound like an excellent catch. Or a rung in a ladder that would take you right to the top.”
Ah, yes. They’d tread this ground before. When he’d mistaken her for one of his eager admirers.
She smiled through her wince, understanding him better now. There was reason enough for his caution. “I’d rather not think of people as things to be stepped on, my lord.”
“Not even someone like me?” A hint of something else colored his voice. Made the humor sound melancholier than it had a moment before.
Perhaps he was used to people seeing him as nothing more than that rung on a ladder. As a duke’s son, any relationship with him was desirable. He was quite near the top of all things English. The man could probably visit Carlton House or any other important home in England with no notice or invitation needed.
“Not even you, my lord,” she answered gently. For a bare moment, she wished to reassure him. Offer him compassion. A man of his position and power needed neither of those things from her. Remembering that pulled her back to more reasonable thoughts. “Of course, if you offered me your hand to climb atop a horse, I’d gladly give you a step then. But otherwise, I’d rather keep my feet on firm ground.”
She had to lighten the moment again. Serious topics were dangerous if she wanted to maintain a respectable distance between herself and the handsome English lord. Which she must, or else find herself in danger.
In danger of what, she’d rather not consider. Gossip, for certain. Though she had never much cared for what people thought of her. But there was another danger. One that she could feel coming ever closer whenever he turned his handsome blue eyes upon her.
His smile returned. “Did last evening go according to your wishes, Miss Frost? Did I make enough of a fool of myself?”
“No one there thought you foolish, though your grandmother seemed to doubt your choice of dinner attire.” She sighed, as though harassed. “Obviously, changing your manner of dress isn’t enough to test your dedication to—as your friend puts it—enjoying yourself more.”
“Andrew’s definition of fun and mine are quite different.” Simon examined the walking stick in his hands, his thumb rubbing at the silver top where she spied a large letter S. For his first name? Usually, men of his status carried around a symbol of their title, or the first letter of their title. His would be an F for Farleigh, or an M for his future place as the Duke of Montfort.
He saw her looking and held the stick out to her. “Would you like to see it?”
“Oh.” Isleen raised both hands to ward off the offer, but instead found him placing the fashionable cane into her hands, which immediately dropped beneath its weight. It was much heavier than it looked.
“Careful,” he warned, helping her catch it, his hands sliding close to hers along the polished black surface. His gloved hands brushed her bare fingers, and a shiver went through her. Once he seemed certain she wouldn’t drop his strange accessory, he released the walking stick and stepped back a pace, clearing his throat as he did.
Was she not the only one effected when they stood that near? That trail of thought led to madness, for certain.
She turned the cane round in her hands, then held the head of it up to study the silver S. It wasn’t set in the metal, but stood out from it, like a raised stamp or seal. “Is the S for your Christian name?”
“Yes. Simon. My father gave it to me as a gift before I left for Ireland.”
“Why is it so heavy? The wood cannot be this weighty on its own.”
Simon folded his arms across his chest, and the sleeves of his great coat pulled tight against his shoulders. “Make a guess.”
