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The women in the shop became aware of Simon as his gaze landed on Isleen and stopped. Her stomach flipped as he charged forward, not taking his eyes off hers as he marched through tables and seemingly ignored everyone and everything else.
Somehow, having him storm toward her like a lion ready to pounce made her blush.
“Miss Frost.” His tone was firm, the words quiet. “I owe you a forfeit.”
She gulped. Then stuttered out, “Ha-have you been discovered s-so soon?” Bumps raised along her arm as she failed, quite miserably, to sound amused.
“Yes. I have.” He leaned closer, his voice going lower still. “What will you do with me now?”
Her jaw fell open. Never had any man said such a suggestive thing to her. Given his glower, he did not at all mean the words the way they had sounded to her addled mind. Which meant she had interpreted them entirely wrong. Without reason.Oh dear.
Her throat tightened, making it impossible for her to answer his question. Even if her mind hadn’t been lost to confusion. Words were altogether impossible. Rather, she caught herself studying his eyes. The brightness of them. The way his long nose set so perfectly between those eyes. And how very nice his mouth looked, despite the curious tilt to one side…
Emma appeared at the man’s elbow, a tight smile on her face. “Simon? What are you doing to poor Miss Frost?”
“Asking her a question,” he answered, not moving an inch. At that moment, Isleen finally saw the flash of his smile—those lips she had studied turned upward, but only just. Of course he wasn’t angry with her. He was playing up the emotion for his friends. Letting them think he resisted all their attempts at enlivening his life.
“You are making a scene, more like,” Emma whispered. “You look like you want to eat her.”
Isleen swallowed. Yes, that interpretation of his expression felt right. The man looked as though he might bite her, or taste her, or…or something terribly ungentlemanly.
That admonition took hold of him, and his eyes widened. Simon rocked back on his heels and let his smile stretch freely. “I beg your pardon, Miss Frost. Did I make you uncomfortable?”
Not as uncomfortable as she was about to make him. “The apology isn’t necessary, my lord. However, I have an idea for how you can make it up to me.”
She reached into her reticule and pulled out a slim volume of poetry. She had brought it for this very moment. “Choose one of these to memorize and recite later.”
With a distrustful look, he took the book from her and read the words embossed on its cover. “‘The Poetical Works of the Late Thomas Little.’ What is this?”
“Thomas Moore’s book of poetry.” She grinned up at him with more confidence than she felt, having a moment before been certain hedidwant to taste her. “I think you must enjoy it. He is, after all, an Irishman.”
“And when is my recitation?”
“I haven’t decided.” She tipped her chin up. “In the meantime, perhaps you could help me decide something else.”
His eyebrows drew together sharply, and he took another step away from her before tucking the book into his coat. “What would that be?”
“Should I get this fan, or this one, for the Christmas ball?” She snapped both open and held them out for him to inspect.And she appreciated the defensive effect they had, keeping him back.
Simon stared at her, incredulous, and Emma looked between them with obvious confusion.
“The one with the trees,” he said. Then bowed to both women. “We will meet you for tea in half an hour, ladies.” He left the room, nodding politely to the clusters of shoppers as he went. The bell chimed again as he opened it and went out into the bright autumn day.
“You had better call me Emma from now on,” the lady beside Isleen said.
“Really? Thank you. But why?” Isleen put the mint-green fan back upon the table. “Why now, I mean.”
“Anyone who can make Simon act like that, in public, is worthy of friendship.” Emma picked up the fan that Isleen had discarded and turned it over, not meeting Emma’s gaze. “I haven’t seen him wear anything other than a dignified mask when in public. Not for years, anyway. I think we had better keep you close, Miss Frost.”
At this, the Irish woman released a shaky laugh, a thrill of happiness rolling through her. “Please. Call me Isleen.”
A friendship with the countess was exactly what she had wished for, but the way it had come was rather disconcerting when she thought on it. As she paid for the fan that Simon had picked out, studying the painted trees, her heart skipped with worry.
What did it mean, that she had caused Simon’s mask to fall in public? It signified something to his friend. Something that had made her grow fonder of Isleen with immediacy. And the way he had acted, as though he had forgotten or did not care that the other customers in the shop had watched their interaction with wide eyes.
Had he meant to embarrass her? Or had she, somehow, truly done something worthy of note? The puzzle troubled her more than she liked. Even after they had enjoyed tea as a group, conversation flowing easily. Simon didn’t give her a single look of significance. Which bothered her still more.
Perhaps it hadn’t meant anything, that strange interaction in the shop. Isleen certainly did not spend a moment trying to discover why that conclusion disappointed her.
