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“Dull.”

She pressed her lips together to avoid laughing. “Why would I save interesting parts of the tour for special guests? Besides, you can’t tell me that—” she gestured toward the painting directly above her, “—isn’t interesting.”

He winced. “Good heavens. Is that a mole on his nose? A boil? A superfluous nipple?”

“Alas, the answer is lost to history.”

He smirked and put his arm loosely around her waist, as though his hands wouldn’t be appeased unless he touched her. “You’ve never summoned his spirit to ask? Seems worthy of an interrogation.”

“This handsome gentleman remains anonymous, unfortunately. I don’t know his name.” She motioned down the hallway. “I don’t know any of their names.”

He tilted his head quizzically. She hadn’t paid attention to that detail about him, how he gave her space to speak and explain. So often she had to say what others wanted to hear, her own opinions remaining an afterthought. His silence was a luxury.

“My grandparents were well-known as mediums when they emigrated from Ireland,” she said. “But they weren’t wealthy. They lived modestly until my mother was in her teens, when my grandfather published his first book.”

“I remember Mrs. Bunton-Talmadge mentioning it. Rest for the Weary Dead?”

“Wandering Spirit, but yes. It was a smashing success, and suddenly people of consequence wanted to consult with them. They needed to create the illusion of belonging in such circles. This house was one part of that illusion.”

He nodded, examining the paintings once more with greater scrutiny. “These lovely souls aren’t your ancestors?”

“I certainly hope not. I wouldn’t want one of my children to have a superfluous nipple on his nose.”

A laugh broke out of him, and he ran a hand down her back. She loved that touch, wanted to bottle the sensation, sip from it in small doses whenever she needed reassurance.

She said, “They hired solicitors to scour the countryside for grand houses the owners couldn’t keep up. Impoverished aristocrats sold off their forebears along with anything else that wasn’t entailed, and we provided these paintings with new accommodations.”

“You are lying about them.”

She stepped away from his touch. “I never once said they were our ancestors, or that my family has lived in this home for generations.”

“You implied it.” The bite had returned to his tone, and she wanted to smother it with a pillow. “How do you know all those ghost stories if you haven’t lived here for generations?”

“You haven’t spent meaningful time in a small town. All people do is tell stories. I listened to them.”

“Are they true?”

“Does it matter?” Her chest had gone tight, anxiety climbing her ribs like rungs on a ladder.

“Yes.” His voice was calm, irritating her further. “It matters to me, and I think it matters to you, too.”

It didn’t just matter to her; it was eating her up inside. “I tell people what they want to hear. And isn’t that what we’re all doing? I play the role of Madame Bridgette to keep a roof over my head. You pretend at being a stuffy earl, then you speak to me with language that would make the most scandalous rogue in London blush.”

He blinked, his brows knitting. “Was it too much? I’m sorry⁠—”

“I loved it. Don’t apologize when I’m proving a point.”

The tension in his brow eased. “We’re all pretending to be something we’re not,” he said, devoid of accusation. “What we think others want us to be.”

He stepped away, as though giving himself space to ponder their exchange, or perhaps question why her grandparents selected these hideous paintings to decorate their walls when there must have been better-looking options. He surprised her when he spoke again. “Things were so easy between us at the tavern. Were you pretending to flirt with me then?”

She shook her head. She’d run out of lies and half-truths for him. “I noticed you the moment you came in, but I wasn’t going to talk to you.”

This piqued his interest. “Why not?”

She shrugged, giving herself time to answer thoughtfully. “I knew you were someone, important in a way I couldn’t name. Clearly a traveler, which meant you weren’t staying long.”

“Which was the mark against me? The ‘important’ part, or that I wouldn’t stay?”