Page 12 of Earl for the Summer
“And yet you say it in a way that means quite a lot.” Ivy smirked. “You noticed him.” She shrugged. “It is not unheard of that a young lady should take note of a gentleman.”
“Ivy, please. This isn’t a case for one of your sleuth-like deductions.”
“Yet you’ve already said something incriminating.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “It doesn’t have to mean anything, Daphne. Not every spark becomes a fire.”
“I said he looked different, not appealing,” Daphne said a little too indignantly.
“You said both.”
Daphne gave her a warning glance, but Ivy only laughed softly, enjoying herself far too much. Then, with a pat to Daphne’s arm, she sobered a little.
“You’ve done nothing wrong. It’s not a crime to notice a man. Even one with…complicated attachments.”
“It feels as if it should be.”
“It’s not,” Ivy said gently. “Just don’t go falling in love with him.”
Daphne stiffened. “Of course I won’t. Do you not think I’ve learned my lesson after Moreland?”
But even as she said it, her pulse quickened.
A murmur swept through the drawing room, as if someone had let in a breeze. Daphne didn’t have to turn to know who had just walked in. She felt it in the way the room altered—the shift of attention and tilt of voices. Someone spoke his name in greeting.
Windham.
She turned despite herself.
There he was—tall and composed in his evening clothes, the line of his shoulders so much broader than she remembered. He greeted Lady Harrington, his manner polished but not assmiling as he used to be, almost too practiced. Then his gaze swept the room, as if searching for someone.
Until it landed on her.
Daphne felt it again as she had last night—an inexplicable jolt. As if some thread inside her had snapped taut.
He didn’t look away.
Neither did she.
“There it is,” Ivy murmured at her elbow. “That very not-a-crime sort of noticing.”
Daphne inhaled sharply, determined not to rise to the bait. “He looked over. That’s hardly?—”
“And he’s still doing so.”
Daphne exhaled and turned her back to the room, pretending sudden interest in the arrangement of flowers on nearby table. “He’s not quite as I thought he was.”
“Not the affable suitor of your friend, you mean?”
“I mean,” she said quietly, “he looked at me strangely last night, almost as if he didn’t know me. And then?—”
“Then?” Ivy’s voice was inquisitive now, as if seeking clues.
Daphne shook her head. “Never mind.”
Before Ivy could press her, a familiar voice cut through the nearby conversation.
“Miss Bridewell.”
She turned. He stood a polite distance away, his hands clasped behind his back.
