Page 33 of A Lady’s Guide to Mystery and Mischief

When Grey turned to Farah, she could almost swear he was checking her for injuries. For an aching beat, she could barely speak. She’d never been rescued before. Granted, she could have handled Helena’s husband herself, but still. It was like being wrapped in a cocoon of the finest silk, a feeling so lovely that she wished she could keep a single thread of it in her pocket for the next time she had need of it.

Grey’s attention strayed from Farah for the briefest of moments, his words meant for Helena. “What was that?”

Helena pulled at her sleeves. “My husband had a touch too much to drink. My apologies.”

“This is Miss Helena Jennings,” Farah said. “She opened her home to me while—”

“Yes, I know,” Grey said with some irritation. “You mentioned it before.”

“I should go.” Helena’s voice was barely audible. “I’m so sorry, Farah.”

Farah didn’t know what the apology was for—the fact that Mr. Jennings had insulted her or that Helena had told her husband about Farah’s plans to marry.

“A stupid attempt at connection. That’s all it was,” Helena murmured. “That’s why I told him, I mean.”

“I know,” Farah said. “I know. It’s all right.”

Helena dipped her head in Grey’s direction as she made her way to the door. “Thank you for your intervention, sir.”

“Wait.” Farah took Helena’s hand, bringing her to a stop. “Ask to stay at Willow House for the night. My aunt won’t mind.”

Relief ghosted across Helena’s features before dissipating. “But Andrew might. I—we can speak of this later. I’ll bid you both good evening.”

Farah sighed once her friend had left. “Poor Helena.”

Grey spoke from behind her. “Don’t tell me you mean to continue your stay with them.”

“I might have to move to Willow House myself,” Farah admitted. “Even if it does feel cruel to leave Helena alone with him.”

Grey’s next remark came at the end of a lengthy pause. “It’s a difficult situation she’s in.”

Farah wrapped her arms around her middle. “It is.”

“Don’t pay him any mind. He’s clearly a fool.”

A nervous, breathless laugh escaped her. “I won’t.”

There’s nothing desperate about wanting to be loved.

Grey cleared his throat. “I suppose we should rejoin the fray.”

Farah hesitated, wanting to stay in this feeling of safety, in the quiet that had taken root in her chest. “I’m not sure I want to.”

“Fine,” Grey said after a moment’s consideration. “We’ll go somewhere else.”

Chapter Eight

“Where are we going?” Farah asked, trailing after Grey as he left the parlor and made a beeline for the first set of stairs he saw.

“I have no idea,” he muttered, trying and failing to cool the fury that threatened to overtake him. He’d decided to seek Farah out to inform her that he’d discovered his limit for the number of dances in a single night—three. But when he’d found her standing between an arguing couple and on the receiving end of all manner of insults, the subject of dancing had vanished from his mind.

It was annoying how instantaneous it had been, the need to protect her. Specifically her. But he’d always been like this, hadn’t he? Easily won and easily discarded by those he favored. And, goddamn him, he was starting to favor Farah Rafiq. It didn’t matter that she was incessant in her cheerfulness, prone to overcomplicating even the simplest of matters, or insufferably nosy. Something in him had latched onto her the minute he’d seen her, and he’d been trying to fight it ever since.

And you’ll keep fighting it if you know what’s good for you.

Finally, on the second floor, Grey found an empty room, the walls of which were covered in damask and hung with dozens of paintings. A gallery bathed in moonlight, away from people and loud music and dancing.

Farah followed him, wandering to a large bay window that overlooked the gardens. The moonlight made a goddess of her, bathing her in silver, the roses at her neckline aglow. They were blue, unlike the hundreds of pink roses he’d seen tonight. Blue for Farah, as odd as she was lovely.