“No.”

“But—”

“Myrtle, we are alone together; you are a young woman and I’m a man, and you’d be ruined . . .” And he’d be trapped. “If we were discovered”—he waved a hand between them—“as we are, your brother would call me out.” And strangely, these days, death didn’t hold the same appeal it once had.

“We won’t be discovered because no one is here,” she pointed out, dogged in her determination. “And . . . I’m afraid of being alone.”

And there it was.

The reason she continued to seek him out.

In fairness, any young woman would have been daunted at simply the prospect of being alone.

Do not . . . Do not . . .

Bloody hell.

“Fine,” he gritted out. “I’ll stand outside the corridor and that is—”

“Thank you,” she said quickly, and then as if she feared he’d change his mind—which he absolutely should—the lady sprinted off.

Val continued after her, keeping a sizable and safer distance between them.

That way it wasn’t as easy to note the pink flush that still clung to her skin from the warm waters she’d recently climbed from.

Chapter 12

Chapter 12

He’d stayed.

He’d stayed when he’d clearly not wanted to.

When he clearly didn’t wish to be with her.

Such, she’d learned, was the way of all people where Myrtle was concerned: Her parents had sent her away. Her elder siblings treated her as though she were a small underfoot child. Her younger siblings were content with one another’s company and didn’t have need of their older sister. Her cousins rarely acknowledged her anymore.

And at every turn, Val sought to leave or was asking her to leave.

Even with all that, he continued to keep her company still.

“Are you done?” he called from the other side of Cassia’s door, his voice tinged with impatience.

Granted, he proved reluctant in her company. “No,” she said, letting her dress fall, and reaching for another gown. Her fingers caught a modest white muslin article . . . and she stopped, considering the material a long moment, before sliding her gaze sideways. Assessing the other gowns with greater care, and with less of a perfunctory nature.

Unlike her largely white and pink wardrobe, Cassia’s contained silks and satins of deeper, darker hues. Bolder looks, with even bolder bodices.

That was, bolder than the high-necked, lace-stuffed ones that had been selected for Myrtle, just a few months shy of making her Come Out.

Dampening her mouth, she collected a silk gown in deep sapphire, the bodice and hemline both trimmed with crystals, and with reverent fingers, she drew the article forth.

Never before had she worn such a dress.

Eventually, she would.

But her sister, having already known two London Seasons and not wed, had been afforded a greater freedom with her wardrobe.

Perhaps in an effort to entice?