Cecelia shrugged. She didn’t mind spending the day with Claire. “This mission will be dangerous?”
Milly nodded. “Very.”
“I’m surprised they’re not sending a man with us.”
“They are.”
Cecelia’s head spun to look at the gnome. “Who?” she asked.
Milly ignored her and kicked at the floor with the toe of her wooden slipper. “You haven’t heard word that Ronald is about, have you?” she asked without looking up at Cecelia. Her voice was quiet. For some reason, she didn’t want Cecelia to know that the answer to her question mattered.
“If the Thornes are about, Ronald is about, I guarantee. Why? Did you need him for something?”
Milly scoffed, looking down at her fingernails as though they held the secrets of the fae. “I don’t need him for anything,” she said, her tone flippant.
Either Milly had more than a passing interest in Ronald or she wanted to distract Cecelia from her questions. Cecelia narrowed her eyes at the gnome. “Tell me who the man is who’s going on the mission with us.”
But Milly threw herself out the window. Cecelia supposed she would find out who it was tomorrow.
Three
Cecelia filled a plate for herself at the sideboard in the big breakfast room and sat down at the big empty table. She lifted a fork full of boiled eggs to her mouth and had just taken a bite when Allen breezed into the room. “Good morning, Miss Hewitt,” he said with a quick nod of his head.
His hair was damp and he smelled like the soap his valet had used to shave him. “Good morning,” she chirped after she forced herself to swallow.
“I trust you slept well?” he asked as he began to fill a plate for himself.
She hadn’t slept well. Not at all. But she smiled and said, “Quite well, thank you.”
“It must be a bit off-putting to be so far from home,” he said.
She shrugged. “It’s nothing I’m not used to.” She looked around the room. “Although my normal lodgings in this world don’t typically involve breakfast with the family. I’m usually with the children. Or the servants.”
As a faerie, she was often installed with the servants to give herself the most access possible to the children or the others she was there to help. Her accommodations were adequate, but nothing nearly as nice as Ramsdale House. “Do you live here as well?” she asked.
His brow furrowed. Had she just made a mistake? “I do not live here, actually. I share bachelor’s lodgings with Marcus in town.” He leaned close as though he wanted to impart a secret. “There’s only so long one can stand living with one’s parents and younger siblings.”
“Marcus doesn’t live here, either?” she asked. She wanted to smack herself in the forehead with the heel of her hand when she realized what she’d just revealed. “Not that it matters,” she went on to ramble.
He chuckled and covered her hand with his. He opened his mouth to speak, his eyes dancing with playfulness. But just as he did, Marcus walked into the room. Cecelia jerked her hand from beneath Allen’s, and her face became hotter than the fire in the grate. Marcus stopped and arched a brow at them. He tugged his jacket closer to his body and said flippantly, “Don’t let me interrupt. I merely wanted to break my fast.”
“Interrupt what?” Cecelia asked.
He motioned toward them. “That,” he stopped to grit his teeth, “hand-holding thing you were doing.”
“We weren’t holding hands,” Cecelia corrected.
Allen covered his mouth with his hand and pretended to cough. He murmured, “Pardon me,” when she shot him a look. He looked over his shoulder at Marcus finally. “Yes, brother dear, there was no hand holding.” He chuckled out loud. “It was simply a hand cover. Entirely my fault. She looked as though she needed covering.”
Marcus’s gaze rose quickly to meet his brother’s. His brow furrowed. “Beg your pardon?” Marcus growled.
“Her hand, that is,” Allen stumbled on. He was enjoying this. She was sure of it. “Her hand needed covering. Not her, per se. Just her hand.” He looked down at her hand, which was now clutched into a tight fist in her lap. “Such lovely hands they are,” he said absently. He looked back at Marcus again. “But I’m sure you’re already aware of how lovely Cecelia is.”
“Lovely,” Marcus grunted, as he came to the table and sat down across from them. He took a bite of toast. “So, just what was it about her that made you think her hands needed covering, Allen? You were overcome by the sheer beauty of them?” He took another bite. “Because I could see it if her hands were cold. Or if she was injured and you needed to squeeze her hand to stop the flow of blood.” He leaned over and looked at Cecelia’s hands. “But they don’t appear to be injured.”
“Stop it, Marcus,” Cecelia warned as she tossed her napkin into her plate. “You’re being ridiculous.”
His brows rose so far she feared they would blend with his hairline. “Me? Ridiculous? Because I want to understand why he was holding your hand?”