Page 23 of Lord Farleigh and Miss Frost

“A person should consider the way dust gathers before commissioning furniture.” Her lips curved upward. “May I have my hand back?”

Simon released her fingers immediately and stepped away. What had come over him? He had to get hold of himself. “My apologies, Miss Frost. Was there something you needed from my family? A question for my mother, perhaps, or Josephine?”

“I need nothing from them. I am waiting for you, my lord.”

“For me?” His chest tightened, and he held onto his breath a moment longer than usual before releasing it in a question. “Why?”

Her pretty smile turned into a wide grin. “I have come with instructions for dinner.”

His excitement withered into dread. “Oh? What sort of instructions?”

“Your dress for the evening.” She waved her hand at his person. “I am told a neighbor named Mr. Hepsworth is coming to dinner, with a wife and daughter to help balance out the table. Is he anyone of importance to you?”

Slowly, Simon shook his head. “Not especially. The family is often invited to keep company with ours. Their daughters are near in age to my sisters.”

“Grand. Then it ought to be easier to follow my instructions. Tell me, what is the brightest color coat you own? And have you a purple waistcoat?”

Simon swallowed. “Purple?”

“Lilac will do in a pinch. And something red, I think, if you can manage it. But no dark blues or greens. And no brown or black, either, where we can help it. How large is your largest stickpin?”

It seemed Miss Frost might yet uphold Andrew’s hopes for merciless torture, after all.

* * *

The hearthin the Elizabethan Saloon burned bright, and candles set about in the room helped add to the warm and cheery setting. Isleen stood apart from where the women near her in age sat, all of them discussing the Christmas Eve ball though it was yet weeks away. She kept her fan moving, wafting already cool air into her face while her neck prickled with nerves.

Ever since leaving Simon with his instructions on dress, Isleen had questioned the wisdom of her idea. Who did she think she was, telling an air to a dukedom to dress like a fool? What madness had possessed her?

The madness of children. A half hour in the company of her sister and Simon—Lord Farleigh’s—little brother had led to the idea she had thought of as brilliant only hours ago.

Lord James had told her all sorts of things, with little prompting, about his brother. “Simon hates purple. But Grandmama keeps commissioning purple things for him because she thinks it looks good on him.” And he’d told her, “Simon doesn’t care about fashion. He dresses like a vicar all the time.” Then her little sister had come into the game, describing a caricature she had seen drawn with a man who wore his shirt-points so high they had nearly obscured his eyes.

Perhaps it was Lord James’s fault that Isleen had started calling the earl by his Christian name. Only in her own thoughts, to be sure. She would never say it out loud. Ever.

The duke’s deep voice carried across the room. “Are we all here? Where is Farleigh?”

As though summoned by his father’s voice, the doors to the saloon opened. Two footmen in livery each held one handle, perfectly dressed and coiffed. Lord Farleigh stood between them, wearing enough bright and bold colors to put a peacock to shame.

Isleen’s jaw had fallen open, and she shut it with an audible snap before hiding her blush behind her fan. Oh, dear. Mortification had overtaken her on his behalf.

What had she done?

Simon Dinard, Earl Farleigh, wore a a coat in a shade of mint green more suitable to a pastoral water-coloring than a real article of clothing. Beneath the coat weretwowaistcoats. The purple, as requested, with a second, golden yellow waistcoat peeking out. His trousers werevelvet. And deep green. His cravat was snow white, as befitting dinner, but it was enormous andfrilled. A stickpin larger than Isleen’s thumbnail flashed bright red.

And he wore a quizzing glass on his chain.

With the room utterly silent at his appearance, Isleen wanted to sink into the floor. Or leap from the window out into the cold night air—if only she knew how to fly.

Simon, wearing a singularly bored expression, took up his quizzing glass and pretended to polish it a moment. Then he strode into the room and directly up to his father and mother, where they sat together on a settee. He bowed deeply.

“I apologize for my tardiness, Your Graces. I had some trouble with my dinner preparations.”

A loud snort made Isleen jump. She turned to see Sir Andrew biting his gloved knuckle, shoulders shaking. Tears in his eyes. Lady Josephine, at his side, appeared horrified. Lord Atella was staring at the ceiling and fighting a smile. Lady Atella had placed a gloved hand over her mouth.

Máthair and Teague appeared rather stunned.

Mr. and Mrs. Hepsworth had turned still as statues, and their daughter gaped openly at the man she had, moments ago, told the room at large she found the very picture of nobility. The two gentlemen dinner guests, the young vicar and a local schoolmaster, Mr. Sprague, appeared somewhat bemused.

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