Page 16 of A Modest Independence

“I assumed she was your—”

“I don’t have one of those,” he said. “I never have.”

“Oh.” Warmth flooded her face. “I see. That’s… Well, that’s splendid.”

Splendid?

Oh, God.

Mr. Finchley smiled. A quiet smile that shone more in his eyes than on his lips. “I’ve never seen you at a loss for words before.”

“I have words. Plenty of them. Just none of the right ones, apparently.”

“Have I shocked you?”

“You have, rather.”

He fell silent a moment before asking, “Was it the confession about Mrs. Culpepper? Or was it the fact that I don’t keep a mistress?”

Her cheeks burned. “They’re neither of them fit subjects to discuss with a lady.”

“No, they most certainly aren’t.” He paused. “I beg your pardon for having offended you.”

“You haven’t offended me.” It was the truth, much to her dismay. He’d surprised her. Shocked her, even. But she wasn’t offended. Rather the opposite. She felt honored that he’d confided in her. A little greedy, as well. She wanted more of his secrets. More of him. “You may tell me anything you like.”

“Because you’re a jaded spinster who’s seen and heard every manner of thing.”

“No,” she said. “Because I’m your friend.”

A spasm of emotion crossed over Mr. Finchley’s face. For the barest instant he looked young. Almost vulnerable. “Does that mean I’m forgiven?”

Guilt gnawed at Jenny’s conscience. She hadn’t realized that it mattered so much to him. After all, he’d only been using her last October, hadn’t he? Her opinion of him—for good or ill—surely didn’t make one bit of difference. That’s what she’d believed, anyway.

But the expression in his eyes told another story.

Those dratted blue eyes of his, so careworn and weary behind his spectacles.

Her heart softened toward him in spite of herself. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I suppose it does.”

The parlor in Half Moon Street was one of the coziest rooms Tom had ever encountered. It was furnished with a plump chintz sofa and chairs, a tufted ottoman with tassel-trim, and an abundance of dried flowers and stuffed birds displayed under glass domes.

In the far corner sat the little pianoforte on which Lady Helena had played the night he and Miss Holloway first danced together.

“So many memories,” he said.

Miss Holloway took a seat on the sofa. The tea tray was arrayed before her on a low walnut table with delicately carved legs. “There are,” she agreed as she poured out their tea. “Not all of them good.”

Tom sat down beside her. The sofa cushions dipped under his weight.

Miss Holloway’s hands stilled briefly on the handle of the teapot.

The tension between them was palpable. Electric. It crackled in the air all about them.

He was sitting too close to her, that was the problem. He should have taken the chair or—even better—remained standing. It would have been easier to effect an exit. To make his excuses and leave before he said or did something stupid.

As if he hadn’t been stupid enough already.

But there seemed to be no end to his idiocy where Miss Holloway was concerned, especially on a day like today.