Page 42 of A Lady’s Guide to Subterfuge and Science

A soft laugh escaped her, honeyed and genuine and heart-wrenching. “You’re the one who asked the question. It isn’t my fault you don’t believe the answer.” She paused, pressing a hand against his waistcoat. He felt the gentle pressure through his layers of clothing, his pulse jumping in response. “What’s in your pocket?”

“Do you mean to distract me, Miss Darwish? Because it won’t work. I’ve more questions for you.”

“Your spectacles,” she decided, dropping her hand as the waltz came to a close. “They looked nice on you.”

He gave her a lopsided smile, offering his arm to her as the other couples dispersed. She took it, and he walked her out onto the dark terrace. He knew people were watching. He just didn’t care.

“I try not to let people see me in them,” he admitted as they reached the railing.

“Well,” she said, looking out at the scattered groups that meandered through the gardens, “I doubt my opinion will change your mind.”

He kept his back to the railing and leaned closer to her. “It might. I looked nice, did I?”

A pink flush began to creep up her neck. “That is what I said, yes.”

“How nice?” he pressed. “Are you sure you didn’t mean to say handsome? Perhaps devastatingly handsome?”

She scoffed. “I tend to think before I speak, Mr. Booth. The word ‘nice’ was very carefully chosen.”

I know you do, he thought. Every word she said was measured. Clever and precise.

She turned away once more, and he took the opportunity to examine her features. She was a breathtaking portrait of intelligence and wit and the realization of all that had had to happen for them to wind up on this terrace together brought with it a wave of wonder and affection.

Affection?

What else could it be? It was what he felt now, gazing upon her as her curls became tousled by the balmy breeze. It was affection that he’d felt when he’d held her against him as they’d danced.

It was affection that he felt every time she opened her mouth to speak.

Clearly, he had learned nothing from the mistakes his parents had made, because here he was, ready to make the very same ones.

“Why aren’t you asked to dance, Miss Darwish?”

She raised her eyebrows at him as if he’d asked an exceedingly stupid question. “My presence in a room does not usually inspire interest in men. And those who do approach me soon discover that I’m far from demure.”

“I—”

“Disagree, I’m sure. It’s the polite thing to say.”

“I’m not polite, remember?” he countered. “Only honest.”

She stared at him for a long moment, her hazel eyes piercing in their intensity, before saying, “Hm.”

He shifted to prop his forearms against the railing, bringing his face close to hers. She didn’t pull back. “You are the most interesting person at this ball by far.”

Her pink lips tilted in an uncertain smile. “And you aren’t being polite.”

“No,” he promised. “I’m not polite. When can I see you again?”

Her smile disappeared, a frown taking its place. “What?”

“I’d like to see you,” he said, even while knowing that whatever spell they’d been under had already shattered. If Kalila was the sort of person to be careful with her words, Oliver was the exact opposite.

“Why?”

“What do you mean, why?”

She pushed herself off the railing and knit her brow. “I don’t understand why you’d want to.”