There she is.
She’d been unusually compliant this morning and he far preferred seeing that flash of spirit light up her coffee-colored eyes.
Even if it was laced with scathing disapproval.
“My apologies.” He dipped his chin, satisfied to see that her cheeks had pinkened up as well. Simon wondered if he was the only one of them who’d watched the color drain out of her face when her aunt brought up Lord Percival’s death.
That the subject was an unpleasant one for her had been obvious.
Had she been madly in love with Captain Christopher Donovan? Was that why she’d settled for spinsterhood?
“I appreciate your concern, but might I call attention to the fact that you seem dedicated to at least a dozen other individuals as well? Individuals who have nothing to do with my cousin’s household,” she pointed out. Because, of course, her surveillance of his activities had been quite thorough since the day she’d arrived. She’d caught both of his sisters visiting him, his steward, the housekeeper from Heart Place, one of his solicitors, his sisters’ governess, and a few other persons he employed.
Miss Violet Faraday would make for an excellent spy.
“I protect those who are loyal to me.”
She flicked a glance to his arm. “Is that how you injured yourself? Protecting one of them?”
“Yes.” No need to dissemble. Simon stared down at his hand, where it rested in a black sling. Straightening his fingers, he winced.
Not so much at the pain of it but that he’d failed to prevent the attack on a friend’s life. All had ended well, but he ought to have realized who had been behind the attacks to begin with.
“Be certain it’s completely healed before returning to normal,” she surprised him by saying. “One of our neighbors failed to do so a few years back and ended up losing his hand.”
“You do care for me,” Simon teased.
“I don’t wish such an affliction on anyone.” Her mouth twitched.
“Touché.” He nodded. “You’ll be relieved, then, to know that I am under the care of a most excellent doctor. He’s assured me it was only a sprain, and I’ll have full use of my hand in a matter of weeks.”
She dropped her gaze to the floor. “You injured it the same day Greystone and Viscount Manningham-Tissinton showed up looking as though they’d gone at one another with fisticuffs. I do wish gentlemen could resolve their differences without resorting to violence.”
“I quite agree, Miss Faraday,” Simon said. “But there are times when a man has no choice but to fight.”
Her frown reminded him that her betrothed had disappeared after a not-so-necessary military skirmish.
“I suppose that a man who wants to fight will always find a reason,” she said.
Simon stilled at a tight sound in her voice —not quite bitterness, nor pain. Her betrothed had chosen to travel to distant lands to wage battles on behalf of the East India Company. He’d decided to leave his family, and to leave her, to fight for a cause that could only be viewed as greed.
And he’d died.
“True,” Simon agreed, and she glanced up at him in surprise.
Cynicism. That was what he’d heard. She stared at him with eyes that didn’t quite trust and carried a tension in her shoulders as though continually expecting the worst.
How had he missed that before?
“These, I think.” Madam Chantal breezed into the room carrying a batch of swatches ranging in all the colors he’d suggested, and her assistants followed with large books under their arms.
Satisfied the dressmaker and her staff had Miss Faraday’s styling well in hand, Simon turned the page of his newspaper with every intention of catching up on the latest headlines. He read, undistracted, until—
“It’s gorgeous!” Lady Posy’s announcement had Simon looking over the Gazette to see Miss Faraday step out from behind a privacy screen.
“I’ve never thought to wear this color.” She was smoothing a turquoise skirt past her hips.
“But this gown might as well have been made for you. It’s stunning.” The seamstress assisting her was obviously pleased.
