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Elfreda stared. Georgina’s face wasn’t smug, but serious, fretful lines bracketing tense lips. She’d longed to get the advantage of them, to see them cut down to size. But this show of vulnerability gave them more power over her, not less. It hooked something tender behind her breastplate.

She hardened herself.

“Out of sight, out of mind,” she said. “I doubt your father felt the ill will in London.”

“You’re implying that he put the steward up to it? And kept away to avoid facing the consequences?” The blue of Georgina’s eyes took on an icy cast. “He wasn’t like that.”

“He did stop coming, though.” And so had Georgina. She’d always tried to suppress her curiosity, to appreciate without questioning, but now it spilled out. “Why?”

Georgina looked sardonic. “He died.”

“For the two years before that.”

They hesitated. “He preferred Kent. We have a hunting lodge there. It was Mother who liked Derbyshire.” They reached up and plucked a drooping strand of wisteria blossoms. “I don’t want to think about the estate at present. There are far more pleasant things to think about in this floral abode. Anne calls it the bower of bliss.”

The pause that followed was pointed. Georgina twirled the blossoms by the stem, skewering her with their gaze. Their eyes had grown hot, not the color of ice but of flame’s blue heart.

“She told you.” Elfreda’s pulse spiked. “She told you what happened.”

“She did.” Georgina let the petals stroke along their cheekbone. “Care to join me?”

Elfreda started. “Join you?” In her mind’s eye, she saw Miss Poskitt and Miss Mahomed again, passionately entwined. She all but squeaked her next words. “For kissing?”

“Sitting.” They used the blossoms to indicate the empty space next to them. “Care to join me on this bench?” Their voice was dry.

She wished for the ground to open.

“When it comes to kissing, we keep talking at cross-purposes.” They regarded her narrowly, one side of their mouth hitched up with amusement. “We should discuss it in plainer English.”

“No, we shouldn’t.” She straightened her shoulders. “We shouldn’t talk about kissing.”

“We kissed without talking yesterday, and you objected. Would you rather do that after all?”

“No kissing.” Her heart was smashing against her ribs. “We shouldn’t kiss.”

“Ah.” They nodded and stroked the blossoms across the bridge of their nose. “Because of the Bible? It would be unnatural?”

She frowned. “No. When Miss Poskitt asked about nuns falling in love, I thought about the Book of Ruth. How Ruth and Naomi refuse to be separated. For whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people. That’s what Ruth says to Naomi. It’s an ardent declaration of the deepest attachment. There’s no exchange between a man and a woman in the Old or New Testament half so beautiful.”

“Is that so?” Georgina blinked. “I should pay more attention in church.” They stood abruptly. “Because I’m a Redmayne, then?”

“No.” She swallowed. “That’s not it either.”

“Because you abhor me personally.” They closed the distance between them. “Is that it?” They were staring down at her.

She’d claimed to abhor them. She did abhor them. Their smirking, unearned assuredness, their reckless gaiety—it was anathema.

“Because you didn’t like it?” they murmured.

Her skin shivered. Her breath caught.

She was still, and after a moment, they lifted their hand, slowly reached out, and tucked the wisteria behind her ear. She felt the little scratch of the stem, the tickle of cool blossoms, and then the tug in her scalp, as their fingers slid into her hair.

Their voice dipped even lower. “Because you did?”

She took a step back, almost stumbling. She’d exerted more energy than she’d needed.

“Georgina,” she began, breathless.