Page 116 of The Lyon Whisperer
“NotmyMillicent,” Chase corrected. “Thank Heaven. The girl I thought I knew never existed.”
She cocked her head. “What do you mean?”
“She and I were friends precisely because she seemed to have a good head on her shoulders—that, and the fact she turned up wherever I happened to be. Though she had more-than-passable looks, to my mind far surpassing the rest of the women hitting the marriage mart that season, she carried herself in a reserved, pragmatic, no-drama manner I quite preferred. I thought she’d do nicely as a wife.”
Amelia sniffed. “I see.”
“It turned out, I only had the pragmatic side of her pegged. The reserved, demure qualities she displayed, I’ve become convinced, were an act for my benefit. It is quite well known she makes Tully’s life miserable, especially when she learns of one of his paramours. Plenty of drama in that household.”
“Hm,” she said for the second time that morning, now thoroughly vexed. More-than-passable looks, indeed.
Eyes dancing with devilry, Chase reached under the table to take her hand. He ran a thumb over her knuckles. “Something bothering you, Amelia?”
“Do you still find her looks—how did you phrase it?” she asked, feigning ignorance. “Passable?”Really.What kind of a thing was that for a man to say to his wife?
“I believe I said ‘more than passable.’”
She gasped in outrage and flung her serviette at him.
His teeth flashed white, and a dimple she’d never noticed before winked in and out of sight, before he had the grace to fix a sober expression on his face. “There’s not a woman alive who holds a candle to you, Amelia.”
She tried and failed to staunch a small, answering grin.
Abruptly he released her hand to push away from the table.
Amelia moved to do the same. “When do we leave?”
Chase frowned at her. “We?Youare not going anywhere.”
“But, you said yourself, our conversation spurred your thoughts.”
“My decision is final. You will stay home. I’m sure you have reading to do for your next club meeting.”
“Well, that’s true but—”
He glanced over his shoulder at the footman and lowered his voice for her ears only. “I have documents that need my attention, and, to be frank, I find it hard to concentrate on work with you in the immediate vicinity.” Resuming a normal octave, he added, “You do recall the heated”—he paused, and his eyelids went to half-mast—“conversation we had when last we shared a long carriage ride?”
Her cheeks pulsed. “I do, yes, and I do have some reading to catch up on, but I really must insist you allow me to join you.”
“Amelia—”
“I hate to point out I was the one who recognized the quality of the fabrics you discovered when we ventured into the wood looking for clues.”
“True.”
She put a finger to her chin. “And, correct me if I’m wrong, but my understanding that no shopkeeper worth his or her salt would divest information on a client is what led to our learning that the fabric in question is not only very expensive, but quite rare here in Great Britain—all points key to your theory that Mr. Dodd had a partner, as he would never have had access to such costly materials otherwise.”
He gave her an annoyed look.
She did her best not to look smug. “You had decided looking into the fabric constituted a waste of time.”
He arched a brow.
“I don’t mean to insult you, sir—”
“Thank you,” he put in dryly.
“But, given the importance of seeing an end to this arson business, should we not work together, for prudence’s sake? I’d hate for you to miss something vital simply because you chose not to allow me to join you.”
