Page 22 of A Lady’s Guide to Mystery and Mischief

“Really?” Her gaze shot up to meet his. “It’s always been on my mind.”

“A waste of time,” he said, “considering what a certainty marriage is for you.”

“A certainty? What do you mean, a certainty?”

He didn’t understand the confusion that always seemed to descend upon her every time he told her very obvious facts about herself. Women like her were supposed to have an intimate understanding of their place in society, hurdles and all.

“Do you mean to play coy with me, Miss Rafiq?”

“Of course not!” she huffed. “It was a sincere question.”

Grey frowned. What was wrong with her? It was almost as though she were unaware of—of her entire being.

He attempted an explanation. “There’s no shortage of men for women such as yourself.”

“Women such as myself?”

God, but she had to be looking for praise.

“Beautiful, socially adept, clever women,” he said, regretting the words as soon as they left his mouth.

Something in her face changed, her bright eyes softening as a tiny crease appeared between her eyebrows. “Is that the impression I’ve given you these two days?”

He felt the carriage inch forward. “It’s the impression you give everyone, I should think.”

She shook her head with a breathless chuckle. “I assure you, it is not.”

“Tell me then,” he said, inexplicably desperate to know. “How do you imagine yourself to be perceived?”

“I’m not sure,” she said. “But I’m certain if I were as fine a woman as you claim, I would be having an easier time of it all.”

The broken expression on her face pulled at whatever was left of his heart. “If you’ve been unfairly characterized, it’s been by people who don’t understand you.”

“And you do?”

Goddamn it all to hell.

“I might,” he forced out.

The smile she gave him was so dazzling that he had to fight the compulsion to shield his eyes. “I told you we’d be fast friends, Mr. Montgomery. Two days and we already understand one another.”

“I didn’t say you understood me,” he retorted. “I said I might understand you. And even that might have been the heat talking.”

“It is hot,” she agreed. “Would you mind if I took my gloves off?”

“Have at it,” he muttered, wishing the carriage would move another inch. He was a fool, speaking to her the way he had. Vulnerability was a disease, and not one he was eager to contract any time soon. It was just—the shattered, defeated air that had come over her had pulled the words out of him before he’d been able to think.

Across from him, the menace Francis had sent to haunt him was undoing the ribbons that held her cotton gloves in place. The motion was unintentionally seductive, and Grey found himself mesmerized by the slow slide of the fabric across her skin, revealing the backs of her hands, her knuckles, and finally the tips of her fingers.

If she was hot, then he was fit to boil over.

“I never wear these at home,” she said, tossing them aside. “We don’t care much for propriety there.”

“Home?” he croaked.

“Painswick,” she supplied with a grin. “Have you ever been?”

“I haven’t.”