Page 41 of A Lady’s Guide to Subterfuge and Science

She was beautiful.

“Miss Darwish,” he said with a bow. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

She wrinkled her brow. “Willow House belongs to my aunt.”

“You’ll have to excuse my ignorance. People have been whispering about this event for days now, and no mention was made of the hostess.”

“No, of course not,” she said. “In any case—”

“Shall I introduce you to my companions?” Oliver interjected, gesturing to the men that stood behind him.

Kalila’s gloved hands tightened around her fan. “No, that’s quite all right. I really should be—”

“Take pity, Miss Darwish,” Oliver said, lips lifting in a wicked smile. “Can’t you see you’ve already piqued their curiosity?”

Kalila gave him a long-suffering look that he most certainly deserved. What she didn’t know was that he’d rather eat his hat than expose her or put her in danger of any kind. While his contemporaries were sharp, they had never met Dameer Rafiq. She was perfectly safe.

With you, his mind added.

Shaking his head to chase away the thought, he presented Kalila to the gentlemen that were gawking at her. To her credit, her face betrayed nothing. It was as if he were truly introducing her to complete strangers.

“Miss Helena Bamber,” Jennings said, referring to the woman next to him.

At this, Kalila quirked her eyebrows in an almost imperceptible gesture of interest. Like Oliver and the others, she was probably wondering what sort of woman Miss Bamber had to be to acquaint herself with the likes of Andrew Jennings.

Oliver already knew the tragic answer to that question. In the short amount of time he’d spent with Miss Bamber, she’d shown herself to worship the ground Jennings walked on. She seemed to think him a veritable genius which, of course, was beyond laughable.

The group scattered as the beginning notes of a waltz sounded, each seeking out their dance partners. Oliver nodded at the card that was dangling off the end of Kalila’s fan. “Have you promised yourself to anyone?”

Indignation made itself clear in her large eyes. “No. Why?”

“Would you care to dance, then?”

She stared at him as if he’d asked her a question in a completely different language. “I don’t.”

“You don’t?”

“Dance,” she clarified. “Usually.”

“Because you don’t like to?”

“No!” She cleared her throat and began to fiddle with her fan. “I don’t mind it. I just—never mind. We can dance.”

The decision made, Oliver allowed himself to be led to the floor. Kalila expertly fitted herself in his arms and soon proved that she was a more than adept dancer. For the first time, she did not smell only of plain soap. Rather, she smelled of almond cakes. Marzipan.

Desperate to know, he murmured, “Why won’t you dance, Miss Darwish?”

“It isn’t polite to pry.”

He pulled her closer against him, hearing her breath hitch in her throat. She was soft beneath his hands. Pliant and willing and oh so sweet. “I’m not polite.”

“Clearly,” she said, lifting her chin as if to indicate she had accepted his challenge. “I don’t dance because I’m rarely asked to.”

“Because you live in the country,” Oliver said.

“Here, I mean,” she corrected. “At Willow House.”

He frowned. “That can’t be true. You mean to tell me that your dance card doesn’t fill up at every event?”