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The forfeit might be worth it if he could stop speaking with such absurdity. He crossed his arms over his chest and glowered at his closest friend. “You ought to know, handing my life over to a near stranger.”
Luca had caught on and laughed aloud. “I hear it now. How long has this been going on?”
“Since an hour before our trip had begun.” Simon had to alter his pronunciation to make that one work, but he didn’t much care anymore.
At this admission, Andrew started laughing. “Rhyming. How clever. You were always a terrible poet in school.”
Simon looked out the front window, his mind already on his forfeit. That didn’t stop him from his accusatory words. “I’m surprised you didn’t pick up on it sooner, since you gave Miss Frost the idea.”
“However would I have done that?”
When Simon looked at Andrew to challenge the question, he knew at once his friend meant it.
Andrew wore a curious frown, as he studied Simon. “I had nearly forgotten about that rhyming dictionary incident. Though it was exceptional. Remind me to tell you of it, Luca. You will appreciate the story.”
“If you did not tell her, then who did?” Simon rubbed the back of his neck above his collar and cravat. “It is an odd challenge to issue without knowledge of my history.”
“Not really,” Luca said with a shrug. “Every woman I know has a favorite poet. Perhaps that is where she found her inspiration. A general love of verse.” Then he clapped Simon on the arm. “I must find my ink. Excellent attempt at rhyming, my friend.”
As he walked away, Simon dropped his arms to his sides, and he looked out the window again. No sign of the ladies. They were all still inside. And one of them would now ask him to do something else ridiculous.
“There is more to it, isn’t there?” Andrew’s tone was positively joyful. He was enjoying Simon’s torture, even if he hadn’t masterminded more than the initial wager. Which Simon still doubted his friend came up with alone.
“A forfeit, paid as soon as I was discovered. I had hoped to at least make it to dinner.”
“Better see to it, then.” Andrew laughed again. “What will she do to you this time?”
A nervous coil wound itself tighter in Simon’s stomach as he thought on the triumphant grin Miss Frost would soon wear. And the feeling wasn’t entirely unpleasant.
That thought startled him.
How daft must a man be, to look forward to interacting with his tormenter? Granted, not all taskmasters were as lovely as the dark-haired, fair-faced Isleen Frost. A man, any man, would enjoy her company. Not only for her wit, but for her pleasant manners, her fine features. And—and why was he cataloging her good qualities like this?
“Simon?” Andrew’s voice came vaguely from behind him. “Are you feeling well? You look…addled.”
That was the right word for it. Miss Frost’s ability to disconcert him multiple times, while still appealing to his sensibilities, had addled his brain. He answered Andrew in as unconcerned a tone has he could. “I am perfectly well. Merely preparing myself for Miss Frost’s next devious instruction. I had better report my failure to her, to get on with things.”
He made his departure swiftly, giving Andrew no room to speak.
“I must find the ladies. I will catch up with you both soon.” He walked out the door and cast one helpless glance up at the cloudless sky before he stepped into Wilson’s shop. Heaven help him, going into the den of women. Especially with a triumphant Isleen inside.
* * *
Isleen heldtwo fans in her hand, one of mint-colored lace and the other a cream-colored fabric with hand-painted evergreens on one side. She didn’t necessarilyneeda new fan, but with the upcoming Christmas Eve ball, having a new one for the occasion would be lovely.
“Which do you think is softer?” Josephine asked, having appeared at Isleen’s side, holding out two scraps of fabric. “Emma says the cotton will grow softer with washing, but this muslin is more what I am used to sewing.”
“It’s what the intended purpose is that matters most, I’m thinking.” Isleen had taken off her gloves when they first started their exploration of the shop, to better handle the tiny buttons she had sorted through. She felt both pieces of fabric with forefinger and thumb. “Hm. Lady di Atella is right about the cotton. It will grow softer with time. I think it must be sturdier than the muslin, too.”
“I might need to get both, then.” Josephine bit her bottom lip and wandered away, swatches still in hand.
The bell over the shop door rang, and Isleen reflexively turned toward the sound.
Swiping his hat off his head, Simon Dinard walked into the shop that was—predominantly—filled with women. The exceptions to this were the footman who had accompanied them, standing in one corner, and the shopkeeper.
Simon stood still for a moment at the edge of the room, looking about. There were shelves everywhere, even in the middle of the store. And tables piled with goods, including elaborate hat stands. Ribbons hung from rods attached to the ceiling.
The room was a jungle of muslin, ribbons, and feathers.
