Page 25 of A Wish for Father Christmas

And yet, she found herself wishing for an excuse to sit down in the chair beside Lord Brooks and begin a conversation.

She didn’t have an excuse. There wasn’t a reason she could possibly think of that would justify the act. Moreover, he’d made his dislike for both Lady Nightingale and Mr. Allen clear. But, strangely enough, she’d quite enjoyed those few minutes alone with him in the library. They hadn’t shared anything particularly personal or even jovial, and yet she found herself replaying that brief moment over and over in her mind. The honesty of the conversation had been refreshing—and she craved such honesty again.

But it was clear from the way Lord Brooks kept the paper up that he didn’t care to further their acquaintance. Alice turned; perhaps she’d try to strike up a conversation with Lord Sempill.

“Mr. Allen.”

Alice paused at Lord Brooks’s words, half-wondering if she hadn’t imagined them. Slowly, she turned back around.

“I suppose,” he continued, his words drawn out as if he already regretted saying them, “I ought to thank you for the books your cousin brought me the other day.”

Alice faced him once more, clutching her hands behind her back. “I only hope they are proving useful.”

“They are.” He folded the paper and rested it against his knee.

Alice stepped forward and took the seat next to him. “May I speak frankly?” She purposely kept her body language masculine, resting her elbows against her knees and leaning on them. When Lord Brooks didn’t tell her she couldn’t be frank, she continued. “How long are you going to hold my connection with the late Mr. Grant against me?” It was a question she wished she could ask as Lady Nightingale, but this would have to do.

He eyed her suspiciously but still didn’t respond.

“Would you like me better if I told you I also disliked Mr. Grant?” she asked.

“I didn’t justdislikehim. I loathed the man. Still do.”

Alice leaned back in her chair. “Perhaps you should tell me why.”

“Perhaps you should ask your cousin.”

“Perhaps she can’t tell me.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

And there was the open honesty she’d been wanting. Strange how good it felt. Alice shrugged and tried to hide her smile. “Would it surprise you if I said we don’t talk often?”

He watched her for a moment, and she could see his mind mulling over what she’d just said. At length, he spoke. “I had rather begun to wonder. I’ve never seen the two of you out together in public.”

She had been wondering when someone was going to bring that up. “Let’s just say that us being out together in public tends to get...awkward.”

“For whom? You or her?”

“Mostly for anyone else there with us.” She almost chuckled at her double meaning. Just imagine what others would feel if she were both Lady Nightingale and Mr. Allen at the same time. Awkward, indeed.

Lord Brooks continued to watch her closely. “You two aren’t much alike, are you?”

“I am as you see me.” The truth was far more complex. She was very much herself when she was Mr. Allen, almost more so than when she was Lady Nightingale. But she supposed that the part of her that she showed when being one was quite different from the part of her that she showed when being the other.

“Why then,” Lord Brooks asked, “do you care about how your late uncle acted toward me?”

“Curiosity,” Alice said without hesitation.

“Are you curious often, then, Mr. Allen?”

Was she ever. Alice pointed to her own face. “As often as I get a new freckle.” And, like her freckles, first her father and then her late husband had tried to end her constant questioning and desire to learn. But she was who she was, a freckled, curious woman...presently pretending to be a man.

“But why turn your curiosity toward me?” Lord Brooks pressed.

“I must findsomefriends while I’m staying in Carlaby, mustn’t I?”

“And you hope to find a friend in me?”

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