Page 17 of Lord Farleigh and Miss Frost

“Sadly, he is.” Emma had arrived, too. Simon’s quiet, dark corner had transformed quickly into the most crowded portion of the room. “Luca, will you bring a chair for me?”

“Of course,amore mio.” He came back a moment later with a chair. He settled it next to Miss Frost’s, then fetched another for himself.

“There are any number of stories I could tell about these two,” Josephine said, gesturing to Andrew and Simon. “And possibly a few about us.” She pointed to Emma and herself.

“Like the time Simon slid down the banister and his grandmother caught him at the foot of the stairs?” Andrew’s sly grin appeared. “One of my favorite stories. He turned seven shades of red before settling into a ghostly white while she lectured him on the proper behavior of a future duke.”

Years of hearing that story and reliving his grandmother’s indignation protected Simon from a blush at that very moment as all eyes turned toward him.

“I was eleven,” he said by way of explanation. “And that was the very last time I slid down a banister.”

“Compared to you, James never faces any sort of consequence to his more adventurous behavior,” Josephine pointed out. “None of us did, really.”

Andrew chuckled while Simon shifted uncomfortably in his chair. His friend waved his hand in the air with a flourish. “The heir is held to higher standards.”

Miss Frost looked at Simon with pursed lips. “That explains why you seem so stern all the time, Lord Farleigh.”

“Me?” He sat up straighter. “Stern?” Surely not. He had been a well-mannered host. He had smiled at her. Even attempted a jest a time or two. “I am not stern.”

The word itself conjured up images of his grandfather’s portrait on the wall, a scowling headmaster, and his father’s Captain of the Guard, Rockwell. Those old men were stern. He was merely…proper. Respectful.

“I am afraid I must agree with Miss Frost,” Luca said, taking his wife’s hand in his. “You have always struck me as a serious man. Despite your age.” Luca was only five years Simon’s senior. That certainly didn’t sound flattering coming from him.

“You used to be a lot livelier than you are now,” Andrew added. Whose side was he on? “You aren’t nearly as much fun as you used to be.” The traitor.

“Iamlively,” Simon retorted, then winced at how sullen he sounded. “My status as my father’s heir requires I conduct myself with dignity and respectability. That is all.”

His sister turned against him next. Ever since marrying Andrew, she’d become quicker to tease and jest, though her sense of humor was dryer than his.

“It sounds as though you think a duke’s offspring should be the dullest person in company.” Josephine put her chin in her hand and made a show of studying him while her eyes sparkled with mirth. “Dear me, I hope I am not expected to behave that way. I will disappoint everyone terribly.”

How had everyone turned against Simon in the five minutes since they had sat down with him? He glowered at Andrew, feeling his friend was the most to blame for this sudden attack on his character. His friend smiled with complete innocence.

Andrew looked pointedly at Miss Frost. “I suppose he isn’t all bad. It is more the idea that he doesn’t wish to make a spectacle of himself.”

Simon opened his mouth to give a retort, but Miss Frost spoke before he could. “I can understand that motivation. Having anyone stare at me for less than flattering reasons is off-putting.”

“What would a less than flattering reason be, precisely?” Josephine asked.

Almost as though she and Andrew were working together. Driving the conversation to a particular point that Simon could not yet see. But no. That was ridiculous. He had obviously spent too much time studying his father’s military books. Why else would he get the feeling he was being led into an ambush?

“Oh, well.” Miss Frost’s fair cheeks darkened to a soft pink hue. “When we spoke of mistletoe before. That is a distinctly uncomfortable situation for a lady to be in, I would think.”

* * *

Isleen hadn’tthe faintest idea why the conversation had turned on her. She’d thought Lord Farleigh’s friends wanted to draw him out. She needn’t be involved in whatever scheme they were concocting.

Except Lord Farleigh turned toward her, one of his eyebrows cocked upward. “You do not hold with the mistletoe tradition?”

“I haven’t ever taken part in it,” she admitted with what she hoped the others would see as a confident smile. “Mistletoe doesn’t grow in Ireland, and I have never celebrated Christmas anywhere else.”

“But you would object to someone stealing a kiss beneath a kissing ball?” Lord Farleigh seemed flummoxed by her reluctance, and she couldn’t help bristling.

“It is still calledstealing, which would imply a kiss not freely given.” Then she turned to Josephine. “You cannot tell me that there is any other point in the year in which one would think it an acceptable pastime to go around kissing women merely because they stand beneath a certainplant.”

That confounded them for a moment, and Isleen thought she’d won her point across.

“But it is tradition.” Lord Farleigh still stared at her with bemusement. “One doesn’t go about wearing masks unless invited to a masque ball. That particular behavior is reserved for the right time. So too are mistletoe kisses.”

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