Page 43 of A Lady’s Guide to Mystery and Mischief

“Oh, Grey,” she whispered. Without any warning, she closed the space between them, wrapping her arms around his waist and burying her face in his chest. “You poor thing.”

Grey stood still for a moment, stunned. Him, a poor thing? When had anyone ever taken a look at rough, severe Peregrine Montgomery and thought him a poor thing?

Gingerly, he wrapped his arms around her, careful not to squeeze the air out of her. He lowered his chin, propping it onto her golden hair. They remained silent, the only noise coming from beyond the curtain. For all the comfort his grandmother had offered him over the years, this struck him as different. It was comfort from someone who was not forced to keep his company, from someone who wasn’t obliged to him by blood.

Slowly, nerve by nerve, his body awakened. He would do something regrettable any moment now, and—

She tightened her grip around him with a contented sigh, the pressure seeping into his scar, the dull pain a warning. A small hiss of discomfort escaped him, and she jumped back, tendrils of hair framing her round face as she examined him in worry.

“Your scar,” she breathed. “I forgot.”

“It’s fine. It’s fine.”

“I—what should we do now?”

It was the second time she’d asked him that question. He could say any number of things. They should kiss, she should toss Francis aside, he should prostrate himself before her and pretend he could fulfill all her deepest desires—minus the life-altering love she was so desperate for.

Are you sure?

Yes, he was sure. There was no point in attempting something that was doomed to fail. Look at what had happened with him and Susanna.

“We should return to the musicale,” he told her. “And search for a different scrap of blue velvet.”

“All right.” She grinned up at him. “Do you think Mrs. Ramsbury’s guests will weather another of my performances?”

Grey chuckled. “Absolutely not.”

“You will, though.” She stepped around the curtain, no doubt having forgotten the embrace they’d shared. Shattering for him, run-of-the-mill for her. “Won’t you, Peregrine?”

“Yes, sweetheart, I will.”

She gasped in mock offense and gave his arm a playful push. “The nerve of you. I said pet names were reserved for family use only.”

“You said that about darling,” he reminded her. “Not sweetheart.”

She giggled and walked ahead of him, her silver skirts swishing about her ankles. Grey had never been one for endearments, but the thought of them persisted, playing on an endless loop in time to the music trickling in from the ballroom.

None of them suited her. All of them suited her.

And good God, was he a fool.

Chapter Ten

Farah took a steadying breath and lifted her hand to the knocker that had been affixed to the door before her. Wrapping her fingers around the simple loop that had been framed with a bouquet of brass flowers, she gave two sharp knocks before stepping back to fuss over her ivory frock. Not a full day had passed between today and the musicale, and her nerves had her wondering if Grey was expecting her. After the interlude they’d shared in the alcove, she’d been cornered by Leila, who had insisted on tea at Montgomery House the following afternoon. It wasn’t as though Farah could have refused.

Yes, you could have. You can at least admit to being curious.

Fine, she was curious. She was finally starting to make out the threads of Grey Montgomery’s life and was helpless against the desire to learn more. Between Leila, Montgomery House, Francis, and Mrs. Steele, it appeared that Grey had far more going on behind the scenes than she’d originally envisioned.

Stifling a yawn, Farah knocked again. Sleep had evaded her last night. Every time she’d closed her eyes, the image of Grey and Mrs. Steele at the altar had forced her wide awake again. Poor Grey. While his rough demeanor spoke of an unpleasant past, Farah would have never once guessed at heartbreak.

The door swung open, revealing an elderly housekeeper. “So sorry to keep you waiting, miss.”

“Not at all,” Farah said, already peering into the shadowy entryway. “Miss Farah Rafiq here to see Mrs. Montgomery.”

“Oh, yes.” The housekeeper stepped aside to allow Farah in. “Mrs. Montgomery has been expecting you. If you’ll follow me, I’ll take you to the parlor.”

Farah murmured a thank you as she handed the housekeeper her hat and reticule. The walls of Montgomery House were a dark forest green patterned in flowers. As she followed the housekeeper, Farah stepped closer to examine them, noting that each stem and petal had been painstakingly painted by hand. It created an effect that was moody and inviting, as colorful as it was dark. They walked past a staircase to the parlor, where Leila sat in an overstuffed crimson chair. The walls were hung with carpets, and there were pieces of fine silverware and copper scattered on every available surface.