Page 54 of A Lady’s Guide to Mystery and Mischief

Grey obeyed, realizing that he would do well to distract himself while she tended to him. With some desperation, he surveyed his desk for inspiration, picking up a pencil and a stray contract he’d brought home from the office. It was best if he didn’t watch Farah’s ministrations, not if he knew what was good for him.

If you knew what was good for you, you’d still have your clothes on.

Next to him, Farah knelt, and he heard the sound of the jar being opened. All he had to do was focus on his work and she would be done. Then they could part, and he’d be sure to never cross such a boundary with her again.

Despite his skin’s loss of sensitivity, he felt her fingers gently work the slippery ointment into his scar. He tried to force himself to read what was in front of him as the herbal smell of the salve reached his nose.

“I think I overjudged how much I’d need,” she said, sounding as though she were speaking to herself. “Oh, well. Best not to waste it.”

Before he could intervene, she began working the excess ointment into the skin around his injury, going so far as to run her fingers over areas more capable of registering touch. She left a burning heat in her wake, hand traveling up and down, skimming carefully over his scar.

Snap.

Farah’s head shot up in surprise. “What was that?”

Grey stared at the broken pencil in his hand. “My pencil broke.”

“Oh. Was I hurting you?”

“No,” he bit out. He needed to say something—anything—that would pull him away from his thoughts. “What shall we do about the money?”

Farah stood, wrapping her arms around herself. “I’m—I’m not sure. I think I’ve finally run out of ideas.”

The pitiful, dejected expression on her face almost killed him. He had promised himself that he would help her, and he’d failed. It was his fault they were here and not at Ramsbury House, after all. He should reassure her, should help her think of something, should promise to help her see her trip to the altar through, should—

“You deserve more than Francis can give you, Farah.”

The sentence hung in the air, punctuated by the sound of the crackling fire. Farah blinked at him, still enveloped in her own protective embrace.

“You already know how I feel about this,” she whispered. “It—all of it—it’s just my lot in life.”

“But what if it isn’t?”

“If I end things, return to Painswick, I—who’s to say anyone else will ever come along? Is that a risk I’m willing to take?”

Her voice was feather soft, so quiet he could barely hear it. If he were a foolish romantic, he’d have offered himself up. But she deserved better than him, too. Better than him, better than Francis, better than the entirety of humankind.

“I don’t have answers for you,” he conceded, wishing he did.

“I’m not brave,” she said, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Despite what you might think.”

Not brave? She who had barged into his office without a second thought, who later coaxed him into embarking on a madcap quest to catch a thief? What in the hell was she if not brave?

“Yes, you are.”

A broken sigh seemed to come from the very depths of her. “But not about this. And—and marriage does change people, doesn’t it? For the better sometimes.”

She was referring to Francis, the pleading glimmer in her gaze begging Grey to tell her she was right. But he couldn’t tell her what he didn’t know to be true.

And he certainly couldn’t tell her that she was wrong, not now when she appeared about ready to dissolve into tears.

“You deserve more than Francis can give you,” he repeated.

“It’s not my lot in life to have more,” she insisted. “Please, Grey. Trust that I know this. Every part of me knows this. All the silly things I did hoping that I could hurry love along, all of it was wishful thinking.”

“Farah—”

“And, yes, you could very well argue that I don’t need any of it. I don’t need romantic love, or marriage, or a family of my own. But I’m honest enough to admit that I do. I won’t pretend otherwise in the name of strength.”