The Wicked Heir (Spare Heirs #3)(3)
“You’ll survive,” Fallon assured him.
Brice smiled as he took a backward step toward the door. He spread his arms wide in embrace of the night, almost knocking a vase from a pedestal in the process. “Survival—that is the excitement of it all, is it not? A game of survival.”
Brice might see it as a game, but for Fallon, protecting the Spares, his men, was much more than that—it meant everything in his life. He was still watching Brice leave when he heard a small feminine sigh from behind the tower of sweets.
The lady who had been watching his friend bumped into the table as she attempted to skirt it and follow after Brice. The table shifted, knocking loose a tiny pillar holding up one of the great, head-high platters of sweets.
The next moment slowed to a series of heartbeats.
Fallon watched as the display of fruit tarts and sugar-covered cakes wobbled ominously. Without thought, he reached out and caught the third tier from the top in an attempt to stabilize the display before the entire contraption could fall to pieces. His quick grab shifted the series of platters and stands in the opposite direction.
He sucked in a breath of vanilla-and-strawberry-scented air as the display began to slip toward the floor. Then a small gloved hand caught the other side, and he found himself face-to-face with the ever-watchful lady with eyes only for his friend.
When he imagined wood nymphs from mythology, this was how they appeared—with rosy cheeks, doe eyes, and blond curls cascading around a face lit with innocent, ethereal beauty.
Only this lady didn’t belong in the woods with the other nymphs. Not dressed as she was. Fallon wasn’t one to admire fashion, but her gown seemed to be made of stars, as thousands of beads caught the candlelight and skimmed over perfect curves. Who was this lady, and why was she lurking after the likes of Brice?
“Fancy a cake?” she asked, as her eyes cut over to the tower between them.
“Or fifty of them for that matter?” he returned, his gaze trapped, not leaving her.
She bit her lower lip and shifted her hold on the display. “I must admit, I’m rather surprised at the weight of this platter. I can see now why Mother gained a stone when she hired that new cook. Cakes always look so fluffy and light.”
“Until you’re balancing several score of them with the palm of your hand.”
“Precisely,” she said with a small laugh. “Why did you send Mr. Brice to the card room?”
Was this lady not at all concerned that if either of them moved the wrong way, the whole display could come tumbling down? She should be. He certainly was. “Wouldn’t a better question be how are we going to remove ourselves from this predicament?”
“I suppose that depends on one’s priorities,” she murmured, her voice straining as she balanced the platter in her hand.
“And your priority is Mr. Brice.” He eyed her. She wasn’t old enough to be a widow, and the innocent sparkle in her eyes showed a decided lack of any clandestine ideas. That left only one explanation. “You must know he’s a confirmed bachelor.”
“That means he’s available.”
“How do you reason that?”
“He isn’t married,” she said, as if explaining something to a child. “That fact is confirmed. Therefore, he is available for the prospect of marriage. That’s what confirmed bachelor means.”
“Do you think so? Because I know Brice quite well and—”
“He showed me a kindness once, winked at me,” she cut in.
“He winked at you?”
Her eyes lit up with clear delight over further discussion of the undoubtedly notable event. “He did. It was magical. He was visiting my father. He swooped in quite gallantly, and he winked. At me. There was a good-natured smile as well.”
“Oh. All is explained then.”
“Wonderful! I’m pleased it’s settled. You can see now why I wouldn’t want him to leave.”
“Remind me to keep my grins to myself when in your company,” he murmured.
“You think me that impetuous, that I go about hanging upon every smile of every gentleman?”
“No, I…” He didn’t know what his thoughts were regarding this woman besides the obvious: perplexed.
“Go ahead then.” She raised her chin in challenge. “If you dare. Smile. Do your best.”
“Now?” He glanced around, noticing the room was empty—where were the blasted footmen? He had a job to do, somewhere to be, and it wasn’t here holding cakes and smiling.
“Here is mine.” She smiled, and dawn seemed to break in the candlelit room.
Her smile crept into every cold crevice of his mind and warmed it with its light. It wasn’t until a moment later, when the edge of the platter began to cut off blood flow to his fingers, that he realized he was staring at her. “What’s your name?”
“When you haven’t even offered me a kind smile?”
“I’ve saved you from—” He broke off, knowing he’d yet to save her from anything at all. He sighed. “Very well.” He exercised the muscles in his cheeks and exposed his teeth in a smile.
She sighed and gave him a pitying shake of her head. “You’re safe from a leg shackle with that. I’m Isabelle Fairlyn. You don’t smile often, do you? I can see why. You really should work on it a bit more.”