Page 76

“I wish I could, but Miss Morgan has been sitting with her ladyship these past two nights. She believes I am conducting research for the article I’m meant to be writing for Lady Stonely’s magazine. I do not think I can ask her to do so for a third night.”

“Hmm,” Simon said. “That is unfortunate.”

Diantha was a little surprised, and in truth, a little hurt by his easy agreement. “Well. Good night.”

“Good night,” he echoed, and there were the tears again, as Diantha walked back to the house. Only this time, they weren’t in response to the sudden frisson of being understood, of being seen. They were far simpler; they were tears of sadness that her time communing with Simon under the stars had come to an end.

14

Reading Injuries

September 19, 1823

Earls Trip, day 12

Simon was alone in the breakfast room the next morning when he had a revelation.

It was relatively late, and he had long since finished eating. He was nursing his tea and reading one of Effie and Julianna’s magazines—or trying to. Every time he heard someone approach, he nearly jumped out of his skin.

The dowager must be sleeping late again.

He ought to ask Archie how she was doing. She had seemed in good spirits, but perhaps the change in routine was catching up to her. The ladies had decided against an attempt to add hot water to the pool, deeming it too much trouble and unlikely to make much of a difference. He hoped the dowager had not taken a serious chill. It would be—

He checked himself. Why was he spending so much time thinking about Lady Harcourt? He cared about her, certainly, but she had other, closer people to look after her, Archie and Clementine, and of course Miss Brown. Diantha, he supposed, even though she hadn’t expressly …

Oh. Oh no.

He clattered his teacup into his saucer by hands suddenly made clumsy.

Simon liked to think he possessed a reasonable degree of self-awareness. Therefore, he had to entertain the possibility that he wasn’t thinking about the dowager so much as he was thinking about Diantha. Or perhaps he was thinking about the dowager as a proxy for thinking about Diantha.

Was it possible that he had … developed an infatuation with Diantha?

Simon had always been a natural scholar. Despite the fact that he had read philosophy, despite his tenure in seminary, he had always been partial to science—hence his interest in the elusive comet, he supposed. He prided himself on looking at the facts of the world and drawing logical conclusions.

He forced himself to list the relevant facts:

He thought about Diantha more than he suspected was usual.

He called to mind the image of her wet hair more than was seemly.

When he read a book, he searched for passages he thought she would like.

And, oh, dear God, he had purchased two dozen lemons and charmed—and he was not, as a rule, charming—the cook into transforming them into lemon treats for her because she had once told him she had a fondness for lemon.

He felt ill. Truly ill, as if his breakfast might make an encore appearance. In truth, his stomach had been unsettled since Diantha’s late-night visit to his home last month, but this was an order of magnitude worse.

Archie ambled in at that exact, unfortunate moment, and said, “Simon. Good morning. How are you faring? I feel as though I’ve hardly seen you these recent days.”

Right. If Archie had barely seen Simon, Simon would have liked to think it was Archie’s fault. That he was spending all his time with his wife.

But was that the case? He had to add another item to his list:

He spent an inordinate amount of time huddled with Diantha, in the drawing room, or outside under the stars, baring his soul and demanding that she do likewise. Perhaps to the exclusion of his friends.

And, oh, good Lord, he had all but begged her to write him letters.

“Are you quite all right?” Archie asked.