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.”

“But I do know,” he said, not wanting to explain how much she had helped him answer Caro’s letters. “And surely such compliments are within the bounds of friendship.”

“If you say they are, then they are.” Frances slapped her hands onto her knees, pushing herself upright. “If you say we’re friends, then we’re friends.”

So abrupt suddenly. Had he offended her? “Ah… no, you have a say in the matter as well.”

“Consider this my compliment for you,” she replied with a smile. “You may take my friendship for granted.”

“I will never take you for granted,” Henry said. When her face softened, grew warm in the firelight, he wondered if he’d said far more than he knew. She looked at him with her deep eyes, all the tumbled browns and greens of the Bossu Wood, and he felt stripped bare, known and understood, as he had not in years.

He had never thought to be stripped bare again.

Her lips had parted in surprise, and he could almost feel the warmth of her breath, the very essence of her life, pulling him closer.

“I would not take you for granted either,” she murmured, and reached out a hand to brush, so lightly, over his fingers.

Another touch, just as she’d given him when they first met and when she showed him how to write. Each time, he showed her a weakness, and she still reached out to him. That was a miracle in itself, and the sensation of her touch, forbidden and strange and sweet, woke his skin. Heat arrowed through his body: wistful desire, blessed hope.

Yes, hope. He had hope that he could rebuild his life. Though he knew he could not do it on his own. He needed Caroline for that.

It was hard to remember his carefully calculated reasons, sitting here in front of the fire.

Perhaps Frances sensed his sudden confusion; maybe he’d tensed. She pulled her hand from his, looked back at the fire again, and said in her damnably calm voice, “Doggedness.” Her tip-tilted eyes crinkled in a smile, and he knew she wasn’t annoyed. “That’s my answer to your dignity. Doggedness is probably the best quality I have, though also the worst.”

The change of subject was a relief; they’d been growing a bit too fraught. They couldn’t begin grabbing each other’s hands at every opportunity or people would talk, and that wouldn’t do either of them any good. A companion was in a precarious position in society; it wouldn’t take much to send her tumbling.

A quick tumble, that made him remember. Frances’s words about soldiers the first time they had met. It had been so long since Henry’d had a tumble, he could hardly remember the sensation. Understandable, then, how much it was on his mind; how tense his body felt, how aware of Frances’s closeness, of her every touch.

But this wasn’t the time or the place or the person for such thoughts.

“Come now, it can’t be both best and worst.” His voice came out clipped as he tried to quit thinking tumble, tumbled, tumbling. He waved a hand for a servant. “What do you care for, Frances? Tea or sherry?”

She thought for a moment. “Tea would be a wiser choice than sherry. You are always trying to get me intoxicated so you can learn secrets from me, aren’t you? One would think you’d been a spy.”

Henry snorted and asked for a tea service to be brought over, then turned back to Frances. “If I’d been a spy, I’d have much subtler methods. But I’ve never been very subtle. Not even before the war.”

“Maybe that’s your best and worst quality, then.” She smiled a quick thanks at the footman who set a tea tray down on a low table between their chairs. “Sugar for you, Henry?”

Henry considered. He’d gotten out of the habit of drinking tea sweetened—or indeed, regularly at all—during his tent-centered life in the army. “Yes,” he decided. “Two spoonfuls, please.” He had a taste for something new.

He watched her pour out the tea, her movements efficient and graceful as though they had been practiced thousands of times. And probably they had. She’d once said she was the daughter of a baronet, had she not? He wondered how she’d tumbled into the role of a companion.

Damn it. Tumbled again. His whole body felt tight and eager.

Frances held out a cup and saucer to him, and he tugged his mind back to the tea tray. The cup rattled faintly in its frail willow-patterned saucer, and he extended his hand, then paused. How to take it with one hand? If he held the saucer, he wouldn’t be able to lift the cup.

After cutting his eyes sideways to ensure that the tune of “Mr. Beveridge’s Maggot” was still issuing from the pianoforte, that Caroline and Emily were still practicing their steps with the glee of debutantes, he shook his head at Frances. “Just the cup, please.”

“Oh, of course.” She rolled her eyes at her own mistake. “Sorry about that.” She twirled the teacup so he could grip its tiny handle, then laid the unneeded saucer on the tray again.