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Her lips turned upward, but she did not meet his gaze.
“I thought I had done something to upset you.”
“No.” She obviously did not wish to discuss anything of importance with him. Not now. And he did not blame her. So he sighed, heavily, and scrubbed his hand across his chin and then through his hair. He needed to change the subject entirely.
“I confess, I expect any moment for you to unleash some new challenge on me, the way your druid-smithy did to those men.”
She blinked, her eyes turned up to his again, surprise on her features the instant before she grinned at him. “As we are stuck in this public house for a while, I cannot think what torture might be best for you.”
Simon chuckled and his hand slipped from her forearm down to her fingers, quite without his permission or thought, to briefly squeeze her bare hand in his. “I am certain you will think of something.”
Her cheeks flamed pink again, but before she could respond, someone behind Simon cleared his throat. They both turned, Simon somewhat apologetically, to see Andrew standing there with his arms folded and a scowl on his face.
“I spoke to Mr. Bloom. We have one room for the night. The rest are taken.”
“As there are only four rooms, I am not at all surprised.” Simon tried to sound uncaring. “I can sleep on the floor in the parlor upstairs, or down here at a table. Just like when we fell asleep studying in the Cambridge library.”
“I can sleep down here, too,” Isleen offered cheerily. “There are enough women present that we can find a table to keep to ourselves, and then you needn’t worry about Josephine’s comfort.”
Andrew balked, and Simon had to cover a smile with his hand. “Absolutely not. Josie said the two of you would take the room. The bed is big enough for two, and it’s not appropriate for someone of your breeding to sleep in a—in a public room.”
She raised her eyebrows at him. “Sir Andrew, I didn’t think you cared so much about propriety as that.”
“He is right, though.” Simon didn’t like the idea of Isleen sitting in a chair, head on the hard surface of a table, trying to sleep.
“Oh, very well. But I am not the least bit tired yet. So you ought to see to your wife’s comfort for now, Sir Andrew, and I will retire later.”
“She is having a merry time of it,” Simon told Andrew when his friend seemed perplexed. “Telling stories. Next thing you know, she will have organized a concert for everyone present.”
“A concert?” Isleen laughed. “Not at all. Although that does give me an idea for your next challenge, Lord Farleigh.”
Her words perked Andrew up, and Simon let himself groan aloud. She wasn’t the only one who could act. “What have I doomed myself to this time?”
“A drinking song.”
Both Andrew and Simon stared at her with shock. “A what?” Andrew asked, eyes wide.
“An Irish drinking song,” she amended. “Come. I’ll teach you the words. And it is your duty to get everyone in this public room singing along with you by the end of it.” Her eyes glittered up at him. “Come, my lord. It will be quite entertaining.”
Before Simon could voice any hesitancy, Andrew did it for him. For once. “The future duke, singing a drinking song with the people under his watch? I’m not certain—”
“I think it a splendid idea.” They all turned to see Josephine standing behind them on the last step of the stairs. She put both hands on her hips. “All of you were taking too long, so I knew you must be having fun without me.”
“But a public room, Josie—”
She hopped down the last step and breezed up to her husband. “Sounds lovely. Will you find me a chair?”
Simon moved out of the doorway to clear a path for Josephine and Andrew, which put him nearly on top of Isleen. He gave her an apologetic smile, only to find her staring up at him with an expression he hadn’t seen on her face before. Her eyes were soft and sad, but her lips turned up in a smile, and one of her hands rested against his chest as though to keep him from stumbling into her.
The contact of her hand, slim and warm, pressed over his heart, made it hard to remember where they stood. That they were not alone. Because in that moment, standing so close, he wanted nothing more than to dip his head down just low enough to catch her lips with his.
A soft, sharp inhale of breath made him wonder if she had read his thoughts. He met her wide-eyed stare and made himself smile, despite the remembrance of her broken heart. He stepped back, giving her room to smooth down her riding habit. “Teach me this Irish drinking song, Miss Frost. And then tell me exactly how it is a lady such as yourself learned it.”
* * *
Isleen didn’t intendto take so much as a sip of alcohol while she taught Simon one of her favorite songs. And though true enough that it might be sung in a pub by men slinging pints of stout from the glass to the back of their throats, she’d first learned it in the nursery. Folk songs were handy that way. Whether children sang the tune or men stomped their feet along with the words, anyone could enjoy the pleasure of a ridiculous tune.
Simon gave her one harried look from across the table. “How many verses are we at?”
