As she proceeded on with what he had fast learned was common-for-her prattling, he conceded that he was a deuced scoundrel for having let her believe that lie. Or a coward for having been so desperate to hide the fact he’d been staring captivatedly at her that he’d allowed her to think she’d something in her teeth.

Perhaps he was really just both a coward and a scoundrel.

“No gentleman would wish to wed a woman who is poorly groomed, according to Mrs. Belden . . .”

That name again. “Who in hell is Mrs. Belden?” he asked, having been so lost in thought he’d failed to note when the lady’s one-person dialogue had gone so far off the straight and narrow.

“Mrs. Belden,” she repeated with the same sense that he should know as she had about her Jane Austen. “She is headmistress of my finishing school.” She paused. “My family sent me away.” The lady stared expectantly at him. Her eyes, always twinkling with mischief and humor, had gone . . . dark. Like someone had snatched the stars from the night sky, and left a stretch of desolate, inky blackness in their wake.

“I . . . see,” he said, because there was something he was supposed to say here, but for the life of him, he couldn’t make out what those words should be.

Val of old would have.

Val of old would have erased the sadness and restored the sparkle to eyes meant to shine.

She cleared her throat. “Yes, well, Mrs. Belden is one of the most respected headmistresses in England.”

“Are there that many of them in England?”

The lady, failing to detect the playful nature of that question, puzzled her brow. “I . . . do not know. I trust there are a good many.”

Humor. It was something that had once come as easy as his own grin, but also a skill that had since faded.

“I’ve been there for four years.”

Ah, so that was why he’d failed to catch sight of her at a window . . . or anywhere.

Lord knew, had she been inhabiting that household across from his, he would have noted her. She would have made a bother of herself in some way.

Why did that thought only elicit another ghost of a smile, and not the surly annoyance that had been there at their earlier meeting?

“Did you . . . enjoy your time there?” Where had that question come from?

“No!” She beamed, her smile like a thousand suns emanating a warmth that managed to penetrate the perpetual cold that gripped him. “I despised every moment.”

He grunted. “That should make you smile?”

“Well, you asked a question, and did something more than grunt or”—the lady dropped her voice to a rough, deep, angry growl—“‘I see’ . . .”

Val frowned. “I don’t sound like that.”

“No,” she agreed. “Your voice is always a touch angrier.”