A bead of dark-red blood rose on her fingertip where she had inadvertently pricked herself with the needle. Everett withdrew his handkerchief and took her hand in his, gently cleaning her finger.
“Better?”
Her lips had parted. He wanted to settle his mouth on them and kiss her more than he wanted to take another breath. But he resisted.
“Yes,” she said. “Thank you. I’m not usually so graceless.”
He glanced down at her lap as he released her hand, noting for the first time what appeared to be a child’s dress, plain and simply wrought. “What is this?”
“I’ve taken in some of the mending for the Children’s Foundling Hospital.”
He was surprised to hear of it.
Everett tucked the handkerchief back into his waistcoat pocket. “That is generous of you.”
“Or selfish. I need something with which to fill my hours.”
He frowned at that. “You are bored? I thought our mothers and my sister kept you quite occupied.”
“Lady Verity has been kind enough to allow me to accompany her on her visits to the Children’s Foundling Hospital. But I cannot shadow her all day, and when our mothers are napping and your sister is otherwise engaged, I must have something to fill my days.”
He had to admit that it hadn’t occurred to him that she might not be happy here in London. Guilt laced through him. For the sake of self-preservation, he oft spent his mornings and afternoons occupying himself in anything that took him from the town house and her orbit. Something about the notion of her being alone and discontented ate at him. He didn’t like it. Everett liked the thought that he might be responsible for her unhappiness even less.
“What about your friend, Lady Blackwell?” he asked. “She has called upon you several times. Perhaps the two of you might go shopping or do whatever it is that ladies do to amuse themselves.”
He truly had no notion what womanish things ladies busied themselves with, but surely there was something.
Sybil shook her head. “Lady Blackwell has been called to the country for her sister’s lying-in.”
“Ah.” He shifted in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable.
“Thank you for coming to my rescue.” She examined her wounded finger. “It wouldn’t do for me to bleed all over poor little Emma’s gown.”
She knew the name of the child to whom the garment belonged. He didn’t know why he was surprised at that either. Verity had told him on more than one occasion just how generous Sybil was to the children at the Children’s Foundling Hospital. Unfortunately, however, her conversations with his wife had not left her any more certain that Sybil’s feelings for her lover had dissipated over time and absence.
The reminder of the footman set his teeth on edge.
“Why do you not simply hire a woman to do the mending?” he asked, his voice emerging sharper than he had intended. “You needn’t toil and injure yourself. Others could sew a torn hem just as well.”
“I suppose they could,” she allowed. “But it makes me happy to imagine myself useful. It is a small enough thing. I hope you do not mind.”
He ground his molars. Naturally, he didn’t mind her mending for the orphans. Did she think him a heartless monster?
“Not at all,” he said, frowning.
“You are home early today,” she commented, returning her needle to her task and pulling a long line of thread past her tiny, neat row of stitches.
In truth, he hadn’t left. But he wasn’t sure he cared to admit that, for fear her clever mind would read into his actions and see far more than he wanted her to.
“My business concluded prematurely,” he told her stiffly, even though there had been no business, not today or most of the others when he had been absent from the town house.
He was lying, of course.
To her.
To himself.
The real question wasn’t why. He knew the answer all too well. No, there were other questions that inevitably haunted him. For how long could he continue carrying on as if she meant nothing to him? For how long could he pretend as if the thought of her loving someone else didn’t eat away at him with excruciating persistence each day?
