The Wicked Heir (Spare Heirs #3)(4)

Fairlyn… Knottsby’s daughter? Her name alone should have made him see the lady back to her chaperone and leave at once, but he was too busy being offended. “What’s wrong with my smile?” His teeth were straight and white. No woman had ever complained of his looks before. And he’d never found fault in the mirror.

“Your smile lacks meaning.” She adjusted her grip on the display. “Smiles should come from the heart.”

“I’m holding up a tower of cakes and biscuits at the moment. My heart is elsewhere.”

“If you say so.”

“St. James,” he supplied, wondering if she would recognize the name.

“Ah. You have a terrible lack of a heartfelt smile but a nice name, Mr. St. James.”

“Thank you?” He found he was relieved that she didn’t know of him yet oddly saddened at the same time.

How much business was really discussed while young ladies were present, though? He shouldn’t have expected she would know him, nor did he want her to, though her family name was quite familiar to him. This was by far the strangest encounter he’d ever had with a lady, even without the cakes threatening to tumble to the ground around them.

“You’re welcome,” she practically sang in return. “Now, how are we to get ourselves out of this mess?”

“Carefully. Move your left hand to the right. Your right, not my right. That’s your left.”

“I moved to the right.”

“There!” he commanded with a bit too much force in an effort to still her movements. He glanced up and saw the top layer of the contraption wobble before stabilizing again. “Now, if we lift the top off, we can set it down on the table.” He nodded toward his intended destination.

“On the fruit platter? We’ll squash the berries!”

“I don’t see another option, other than letting this thing crash to the floor and cover us both with icing. Or would you rather stay here forever? I could entertain you with my unnaturally affection-free smile.”

To Fallon’s disappointment, the reminder of his smile seemed to sway her thinking. “What about on the cold meats?”

“Berries have feelings about such things but ham doesn’t? Think of the pigs when you say such a thing.” Why was he arguing about this with her? He should set the damned platter down and leave for his meeting. He would be late as it was. Instead he was discussing pigs and berries? It was a good thing Brice had left when he did, or Fallon would never have heard the end of it.

“I didn’t mean to insult the pigs,” she explained, leaning in. “If you only knew my affinity for animals of all kinds—nature in general, really—you wouldn’t suggest such a thing.”

“Meanwhile this platter isn’t getting any lighter. Let’s move to that side table just there and set this contraption down where no foods will be harmed.”

“All right,” she agreed with another bright smile. “How should we do this? Count to three?”

Three… Yes, counting would keep him from staring at her again. “One, two, three… What are you doing? I said three.”

“Was it to be on three or after three?” she asked.

“Three! Three! Just move!” He shouldn’t order a lady, but she didn’t appear to be capable of following his direction anyway.

“We’re going to the table across the room?” She moved with him down the long table as if they were involved in some intricate new dance to which neither knew the steps.

“All to save the berries and swine,” he murmured as he rounded the end of the table and walked backward across the open floor.

“It’s quite far,” she complained. Then with a gasp, she exclaimed, “My grip is…”

The tiered platter crashed to the floor between them, sending bits of cake flying into the air. They both jumped back just in time to avoid being completely covered in icing.

“Slipping,” she finished with a grimace.

“It may be a bit too late to ask you this, Lady Isabelle, but do you have issue with cake being harmed?”

They both glanced down at the bits of cake littering the floor between them. The platter had landed in a large heap and splattered sugary confection across the tops of his boots and the hem of her gown. He could use a thorough cleaning now, but the sprinkling of icing on her gown would likely go unnoticed.

Looking up, her large blue eyes met his once more, this time rimmed with laughter. “As it happens, I believe I am quite fine with cake being harmed.”

“Good. That’s…good.” He took her arm and pulled her toward the door until she was running to keep up.

“Where are we going?”

He glanced behind them and then back at her as they rounded the corner into the hall and kept moving. “If there’s one thing I know, it’s that you shouldn’t ever be caught at the scene of a crime.”

“That’s the one thing you know? I know how to weave flowers together to make a wreath for my hair. And now I know how to bring terrible harm to a platter of cakes.”

He began to laugh. His chest shook with it as if his body were knocking the cobwebs off of a seldom-used piece of furniture. He paused to look at her after they’d rounded another corner into a narrower hall.

“There,” she said, staring up at him in amazement. For a long second, his chest contracted as he waited for her to explain her comment. Why was this wood nymph in a ball gown looking at him with such awe in her eyes? Her thoughts shouldn’t matter to him. He was Fallon St. James. Men across the country feared and respected him for his work—that’s what was truly important.