She was all the more intriguing for it. Lysander felt a strange sense of surprise at himself to be supporting such a thought. In his life, he was surrounded by fine-looking women. His sisters were considered beauties all. Even Iris still wore the gently fading blush of her own tremendous appeal. His brother's wife, Miranda, was known to be a stunner, as well. Loveliness was no novelty to him. He would've thought it beyond his notice.

Perhaps it was not the symmetry of her cheekbones or the smoothness of her brow or the way that her hair, twisted sensibly up on her head, caught the gleam of the candle to show all the colors from russet brown to black. As he remembered, her eyes were gray, with startlingly dark lashes. Her skin was not the protected porcelain of a lady of Society, but something rather more lively, kissed by sun and wind.

As she set the pewter candleholder down upon the small side table, she moved with refined grace, the sort taught from infancy to ladies. When she sat in the vacated chair she posed herself upright with her hands on her lap. Lysander had the oddest impression of formality. She's come to tea, he thought.

For that was the way she gazed at him. There was nothing but cool inquiry in her eyes. They held no particular welcome nor any particular aversion. There was no sign at all of avid curiosity.

With the feeling that she expected very little of him, Lysander felt a wash of relief. He waited in silence. She would surely ask questions. Hopefully not too many.

Yet she said nothing. She tilted her head once and her gaze became distant and clinical as she looked him over keenly. It reminded him of the impersonal examination of a physician. Then, apparently satisfied with what she saw, she returned to her cool and expectant poise.

Lysander didn't want to speak first. He never spoke first. He spoke as little and as shortly and as rarely as absolutely necessary. Gathering words exhausted him. Yet he found himself taking a breath and parting his lips.

"Thank you," he said flatly.

The woman nodded. "You are welcome."

No questions. Not even a remark to express hospitality, to ask him from whence he came, or to inquire into his purpose there.

Now he was the one seized by curiosity about her. She was clearly a lady, but not well-off. Her gown was plain and serviceable, a darker gray than her eyes.

The country fellow remained standing by the door and Lysander was caught by the hint of a man on military guard duty. The man was a former soldier.