Henry smirked. “Oh, it’ll be horrible.”

The cuff on his shoulder as Jem stood felt blessedly normal. But after Jem left, Henry felt slow and stupid as he tried to think of the perfect thing to say. Or anything to say at all.

Because if there was one thing he could not do, it was take his brother’s place in the game and hold a sheaf of cards for whist. Not with one hand.

Maybe Emily noticed his sudden awkwardness, because she shrugged off the idea of further cards. “Well, that game was brief and combative. I am sorry for that. Though I am relieved not to lose any money to you flock of carrion crows. Mrs. Whittier, do come and play the piano, so Bart and I can have a dance.” She laughed when Bart’s face reddened at her teasing.

Briskly, Emily sorted them all out. Frances shuffled through music, and Caro joined her, exclaiming over a waltz. “Rather fast of you, isn’t this, Em?”

She looked as light and lovely as one of Leonardo’s angels as she shifted a lamp into place to study the music and began humming tunelessly. Next to her, Frances fell into shadow.

“Not a waltz, please,” Bart said, growing still more red.

Caro laughed again and set the scandalous music aside. “Perhaps a reel, then, for two couples? Frannie could play for us.” Her bright eyes twinkled as she held a hand out to Bart.

It felt like she’d slapped Henry with it.

So, she would write to him in private, but she wouldn’t acknowledge their closeness even in such a small party? And yet close was exactly how she wanted to hold him. She had written him so.

He felt hot-headed and hot-blooded, wanting to cut in and take her hand, wanting her to extend it to him.

Instead, he beat a strategic retreat to the fireside, unwilling to watch himself be defeated.

“I think I’ll sit out the dancing, ladies, if you don’t mind,” he said. “Though I’ll be happy to observe and critique your form.”

When all three women pulled faces at him, Henry knew his grin had stayed in place and no one suspected the truth.

Namely, that he had to fabricate a new kind of courage or he would never get even the ashes of what Baucis and Philemon had shared.

With a rustle of fabric, a woman dropped into the chair next to Henry. The faint, crisp scent of citrus told Henry it was Frances, even before he turned his head.

“Mrs. Whittier.” He straightened in his chair, glad she sat to his left, his good side.

“Mr. Middlebrook,” she mimicked. “I hope you don’t mind if I sit with you. I have been evicted from the piano. As it turns out, your friend Mr. Crosby is by far the best musician of us all.”

“So Emily is dancing with Caro?” He twisted, peering around the broad circular back of his chair. Hmm. So she was.

“Most women learn to dance with one another, you know,” Frances said. “I do believe your sister-in-law is more comfortable at leading than at following.”

“I completely and wholeheartedly believe that,” Henry said drily. “What shall we do, then? Shall we play a game of our own?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Very well. I’m thinking of something with blond hair and a red gown. Do you care to guess what it is? It’ll be easy because you’re probably thinking of it too.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Ha. You are riotously funny.”

“A transparent attempt to dodge the question. You have no guess, then?”

He settled himself into his chair, wedging his numb right arm firmly in the angle where the seat back met the side. “Of course I have a guess, but you may not like it.” He gave her The Grin, his most charming smile. The old, carefree expression hadn’t sat so easily on his face for a long time.

“Try me.” Her tip-tilted eyes looked roguish.

“The queen, of course. I’m a devoted servant of the Crown.”

Frances snorted. “Nonsense; the queen hasn’t been blond for at least thirty years. And why shouldn’t I like that guess?”

“Because I spoiled your fun.” He gave a little shrug. With his right arm wedged into the corner of the chair, he could almost believe its stillness was normal.

She held up a hand and ticked on her fingers as she replied, “At the present moment, I’m not losing money at cards, I’m not bumbling through a minuet on the piano, and I’m not racking my brain for the steps of a reel. So how could you think you’ve spoiled my fun?”

“If I’m the only remaining option, I should try to be more amusing.”

“Please do.” She folded her arms and looked down her nose at him in one of the haughtiest expressions he’d ever seen.

“Good lord, Frances, you’re as stiff as a fireplace poker.”

She relaxed, grinned. “At least I’m sitting in the right seat, then, in front of this lovely warm fire.”

“It is lovely, isn’t it? I painted the fireplace screen, you know.”

“Well, it’s only an early effort. You are still relearning how to paint with your left hand. I am sure you will get better with time.”

His head reared back. “I painted the screen long ago.”

“Oh. You did? It’s… hmmm.” She furrowed her brows, obviously trying to think of something kind to say.

“It’s been damaged over time.” Henry felt the need to defend himself, though a smile crept over his features. “It was never an astounding work, but I promise you when I finished it, it didn’t look like an ash heap had been sick all over it.”

“I’d never have described it that way.” The dratted woman was trying not to laugh.

“No, but you obviously thought it. I’ve been insulted, and by my own fellow soldier.”

“Oh, come now, you know it’s not your best work. If you want a compliment, you can simply ask, and I’ll think of a much better subject than an old, damaged painting on glass.”

Citrus caught at him, a sweet scent that reminded him she sat only a touch away. The sound of Bart plunking out “Mr. Beveridge’s Maggot” became dimmer in Henry’s ears. “Would you, now? I wonder what you’d say. Are you trying to be terrifying again?”

“Why? Are you terrified?”

A little. “Of course not,” he huffed. “It would be beneath my considerable dignity.”

“It is considerable. Maybe that’s what I’ll compliment you on. Many men in the ton would be helped by a little more dignity and a little less vanity. Have you seen the dandies who can’t even turn their head within their high collars?”

“Yes, but surely it’s worth it. Isn’t that fashion all the crack?”

When she laughed, he felt a hot clench of pleasure in the center of his chest.

“I don’t know,” she laughed. “I haven’t been all the crack for over a decade, Henry.”

“Now who’s angling for a compliment? I know this is false modesty, because you notice and remember everything. You could easily be whatever you wanted to be.”

Her smiled dropped. For a too-long moment after this speech, she watched him, her eyes slightly narrowed. If he’d had ten fingers at his disposal, he probably would have embarked upon a world-class fidget under her scrutiny, drumming his fingers and shifting in his chair.

Instead, he sat carefully still, and he spoke lightly in a moment that had mysteriously turned heavy. “What is it, Frances? You’re acting like I just transformed into a wolf and howled at the moon.”

“I’m just wondering,” she answered quietly, “if you meant what you said.”

“That you had false modesty? Of course.”

Her mouth curved into a wry little smile. “Never mind. Forgive my distraction. I suppose I’m just distraught over being banished from the pianoforte.”

That armor of humor she kept—he knew it, because he wore it too.

It looked well on her. Her rich dark hair was pulled back by a celadon bandeau; her gown was cut low across her bosom, edged with lace of a darker green. Her skin glowed in the wavery light that penetrated the unfortunate fireplace screen. Subdued but so touchably lovely that he wanted to stroke her. Feel her warmth, take it in. He felt it, the want—a clenching hunger low in his stomach.

“You might be surprised,” she said with a sigh, “at how aggravating it can be to remember everything. Sometimes I can’t get to sleep for all the thoughts jostling at the inside of my head.”

“I know that feeling.”

She shot him a quick sideways look. “Yes, I suppose you might.”

“If you recall—which I’m sure you do,” he said more lightly, “I did give you a genuine, unsolicited compliment.”

She shot him another look, this one wicked. “On my memory, which is nothing but a parlor trick? Come now, Henry. You must know that women want only to be praised for their bonnets and gowns. There are quite a few common synonyms for you look very nice, you know.”

With a rueful smile, she turned back to the fire, watching a coal crumble into cinders. Henry saw it lick hotly at the thick glass of the fireplace screen; then its light vanished.

“You do look very nice,” he said slowly, “but to give or receive a common compliment is no real honor. Anyone might look lovely, but I’ve never met anyone with your gifts of memory or your talent in teaching left-handed writing.”

The words swelled within him, filling him with an unexpected heat. She did look lovely. She was uncommonly gifted. He felt a pull to her, an ease in her presence, that he hadn’t felt since returning to London. He wanted to capture this feeling, to hold it close, as in a lover’s embrace. His shoulders flexed involuntarily, and he felt the inevitable tug at his right shoulder, the pendulous weight of his still right arm.

The heat turned into a chill reminder of all that had changed.

“As you’ve never needed to learn to write with the left hand before,” Frances said, “I don’t suppose you could know how skilled a teacher I am.”