Page 36 of A Lady’s Guide to Mystery and Mischief

“I’d been looking for you when I found you in that parlor,” he told her, tone wry. “To tell you that three dances was quite my limit.”

“Three dances!” she gasped. “Is that all?”

“And not a single dance more.”

Farah sighed, the sound dejected despite the soft smile that remained upon her face. “Today’s investigation was a total failure, wasn’t it?”

“Perhaps not,” he said. “Perhaps the owner of the dress wasn’t here. I haven’t seen a single scrap of blue velvet all night.”

“I know I’m taking you on a merry chase,” she admitted. “And I know it’s silly. But I’d like to say I at least tried to—to—”

“We’ll try the musicale. And the masked ball.” He matched her smile with a restrained one of his own. “We’ll try until you’re entirely certain we’ve exhausted all possible leads.”

It was what she wanted, he reasoned. Who was he to deny her?

Something gentle came over her features. Something almost tender. “Has anyone ever told you how terribly kind you are?”

No.

“It isn’t kindness. I just don’t want to be responsible for keeping you from all that magic you’ve been working toward.”

“Very much appreciated.” She propped her palms behind her, leaning backward until her shoulders nearly met her ears. “Look at all these paintings. Could you imagine having an entire room to dedicate to paintings?”

“Not at Montgomery House, no.”

“Oh, but I like Montgomery House,” she said, tilting her head toward him. “It reminds me so much of home.”

God, he wished she hadn’t said that. Home was warm and welcoming. Home was intimate. Home was where his bedchamber was, the exact place he’d be tempted to lead her if it weren’t for Francis and his inheritance.

If it weren’t for the scar that graced his side, hideous and painful.

A seriousness came over her round face, and he felt the need to remain still as she studied him, her eyes sweeping over him, lingering on his mouth.

Lingering on his mouth? He had to be flattering himself. There was no way in hell—

As if on cue, she began to blush, the color creeping up her cheek. “What should we do now?”

He wished he knew. Part of him wanted to drop the curtain around them so they might remain here, away from whatever awaited them outside, away from Francis, away from the missing one thousand pounds.

Without thinking, he spoke. “Farah—”

“Mr. Montgomery, I—”

Oh, damn him to hell. Here he was, lost in foolish fantasy, calling her by her first name, and she was miles away, calling him Mr. Montgomery.

He stammered over a quick apology, hoping he hadn’t offended her. “I didn’t mean—”

“No!” she breathed, her arms wrapping themselves around her middle. “No, I think you should call me Farah.”

“I should?”

“Yes! Because—well—Helena calls me Farah.”

Helena?

“I’m not Mrs. Jennings.”

“No, you’re not,” she murmured. She pulled a hand away from her waist to place it gently over his. “You’re Grey.”