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“I know exactly what you mean.”

His eyes were brown but not mere brown. They were the color of mature acorns fallen from sessile oaks.

“I have a green ribbon that is the precise color of the stem of a tulip in the spring. I’ve never seen the like of it in the wild. I’ve never seen the like of it on a ribbon in the wild, I mean. I have, of course, seen it in nature—that’s the whole point.”

Acorns and tulip stems—what was she on about?

“Is your tulip-stem-green ribbon on a hat?”

“No, it is in a drawer!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I have quite the collection of ribbons, but I haven’t the collection of hats and dresses and such in need of adornment.”

“Ah.”

She wondered whether to say more. There was no reason to, particularly, but she didn’t want him to think her a frivolous girl with a meaningless collection of fripperies. “Ribbons are also inexpensive, relatively speaking.”

“Ah,” he said again, and he did manage to infuse those single syllables, those Ahs with a great deal of understanding.

“There is not much else in the world a lady can buy that is beautiful yet inexpensive. My sister and I used to occasionally buy ribbons together, and we frequently gazed at them in shop windows. She was quite the seamstress, and she used to spin elaborate tales about the equally elaborate—and utterly impractical—imaginary garments to which she might affix them.”

He looked at her for a long time. She had said too much and, at the same time, nothing of import.

“Miss Brown,” he finally said, “are you sure you cannot stay and enjoy the evening with us?”

“Oh, no,” she said, realizing that she was still standing awkwardly before him. “Lord Harcourt is upstairs sitting with his mother so I could come down and retrieve that.”

She reached for the book. He made to hand it to her, to meet her halfway, but as he did so, he rotated his hand so that instead of her hand making contact with the book, it made contact with the top of his wrist.

She wasn’t wearing gloves. She hadn’t thought to redon them for her quick errand.

This was the second time today she had found herself skin-to-skin with Lord Marsden because she wasn’t wearing gloves when she ought to have been.

Diantha was not a swooner. She couldn’t afford to be. Swooning, she’d always thought, was the prerogative of the privileged, of women who could make themselves unconscious for a time and trust not only that nothing menacing would happen to them in that state but also that any responsibilities they held would simply wait for their reanimation.

This, though. This was as close as she had ever come. And it was only her palm on his wrist. It was a much less decisive touch than earlier, when he’d helped her out of the coach.

It was just that it seemed … intentional. Assisting a lady as she alit from a conveyance was a utilitarian, polite sort of gesture. Holding her book hostage, as he seemed to be doing, was … less polite. She would have said it almost seemed tinged with peril. Except it was just a book. And she could reach for it easily, should she choose.

She did not reach for it. She merely stayed where she was, frozen like the divine lemon ice that had been served between courses at dinner, looking down at Lord Marsden’s left hand. It was veiny, like his forearms had been that night at his house. His fingers were long. Her own fingers ran perpendicular to his as her hand stayed where it had landed—where he had landed it?—across his wrist. She imagined him as a boy, being beaten so as not to favor this hand.

She was seized with the most absurd urge to slide her hand around until it was properly covering his, and to interlace her fingers and his.

With great effort, she pulled away. Lifted her gaze from his hand to his face. He was looking at her.

She had begun to perspire. Her breath was coming faster, and it was difficult to get a full breath in.

She was not a swooner.

She turned and fled.

It was only once she was back upstairs that she realized she’d forgotten her book—again.

The next morning, Diantha and Lady Harcourt went down to breakfast early and found Lord Marsden seated in front of a plate and a book.

Diantha sighed, too loudly, apparently, for she drew his attention from where she was standing in the doorway. But at this hour, she had expected to have the breakfast room to themselves. Now she and Lord Marsden would have to talk. She would have to look at his hands.