"What is it like?"

"What is what like, my lady?"

Simon peered to his right, watching as Lady Whitley nibbled on her lip. She was clearly contemplating her next words, but Simon was far too distracted by her mouth to care about that. He knew very little about the powders and rogues that women used, but he found himself wondering if Lady Whitley applied something to her lips to make them so...rosy. So perfect.

It was the same hue that dashed her cheekbones, but perhaps that was merely coloring from the sun. Lady Whitley walked with Simon through the gardens without a bonnet, letting her golden curls fall about the light shawl she held wrapped around her shoulders.

She fit in perfectly with the gardens—so lovely and natural, floating as if the breeze carried her wherever she went.

This was the fifth day that Lady Whitley had agreed to accompany him on a morning stroll. And every day she seemed a little more eager than the previous one. She'd give him endless impatient grins and flattering words and sly looks. It was hard to not be entranced by her eagerness, but Simon knew better. He knew exactly what she was doing.

And for the most part, it was working. So he couldn't blame her.

"What is what like, my lady?" he repeated softly, trying to encourage whatever was on her mind.

Her blue eyes slid over to his. "I do not want you to think me ungrateful."

"I would never," Simon reassured.

"That is kind of you, my lord—"

"Simon."

Dimples appeared on her cheeks as she pressed her lips together in a shy smile.

"That is kind of you, Simon." She sighed. "My upbringing was more than comfortable, but I cannot help but wonder what it was like to grow up amongst such...influence and greatness."

Simon couldn't help but snort.

Lady Whitley swatted her gloved hand against Simon's arm and glanced up at him beneath sooty lashes. "Do not tease, Simon. I am genuinely curious."

He did enjoy the way his name rolled from her tongue. It was intimate. It made something in him ache. But Simon put that aside. Because it was also forced; he knew that.

"My apologies, my lady. It is merely that I have never thought about it that way." Simon chuckled, thinking of his family. To paint the picture for her, he said, "Most evenings here are spent around the whist table. Cards accompanied by verbal sparring are the nightly routine amongst my father, Will, and Emilia. Meanwhile, Theo looks on as though he is bored with the whole affair."

Simon smiled, imagining it himself. He added, "But he stays to keep Adelaide company whilst she attends to her correspondence. And my mother sits in the corner writing as well. It is all rather mundane."

It was all rather mundane. But Whitley's eyes were as round as the sun in the sky. "Do you hear yourself, Simon?" There was a little bit of awe in her voice. "You speak of the queen as though she is not the queen."

Simon shrugged as they continued to walk, not quite sure how to describe it. It was undeniable that his aunt Adelaide was regal and formidable when she needed to be. But she regarded every person with kindness and was often the first to engage in quick-witted conversation. It didn't matter who you were. And so many people often forgot who she was.

Instead of trying to explain his family dynamics, Simon pointed out, "Your father is a war hero, is he not?"

Whitley's gloved fingers ran over the petals on a rosebush as she said, "Well...yes. Yes, I suppose you could say he is."

Simon did not know much of Colonel Charlie Ash, but he knew enough. Well...enough that Adelaide had granted him a title for his service, anyway. "So you do, in fact, know what it is like to be born into greatness," Simon said.

She shook her head, and all that golden hair went flying about. Simon got a whiff of lavender that he knew was not from any of the flowers nearby. "That is not the same, my lord."

"Isn't it?" Simon reached for her wrist, wanting to stop her. Whitley looked up at him in surprise as his fingers circled around her. He liked those moments when she actually looked at him—truly stopped and looked. "Greatness comes in many forms, my lady. It does not merely come from titles or power. It can come in acts of bravery or kindness or even in cleverness. And in honesty."

Whitley halted completely, and Simon took the opportunity to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear while he still held onto her wrist with his other hand. Her hair was so soft between his ungloved fingers, and it distracted him for a moment.

How horridly enraptured he was. It was the worst curse. Because he knew it was painfully one-sided.

Simon's voice was barely above a whisper as he said, "You are quite clever, aren't you, my lady? But not quite honest."

Her rosy lips popped apart as bright blue eyes trailed Simon's features. Her expression had been wiped clean of the coquettishness she liked to masquerade before him. And it all made Simon wonder if there was something on his face. Because she had never looked at him this way before.

"I—I—"

"And you are charming," Simon added, releasing her hair. "Not to mention beautiful. It is a dangerous combination that you have been using against me quite adeptly."

As much as Simon adored spending time with Lady Whitley, he had no desire to be played as a fool. Which he was quite confident was what she thought of him. A fool. She would bat her eyelashes, murmur sweet words, and then ask him the questions she really wanted to know. Lady Whitley was interested in a great many things, her curiosity never-ending. But none of those things included him.

"I do not know what you mean," she eventually sputtered out.

Simon leaned closer, meaning to whisper in the ear that he'd just uncovered. Flowery scents threatened to overwhelm him, and he wasn't sure if it was from her or the gardens. Both seemed designed to entice and trap him. These rose bushes were a maze, and she was a puzzle. "Come now, Lady Whitley," he finally breathed, "do not play games with me."

Her voice was raspy as she repeated, "Games?"

Pulling back, Simon cocked a brow. He decided to speak plainly. "You needn't be coy, Lady Whitley. If you have questions regarding my mother and my family, you are free to ask them. But I would ask you to refrain from playing with my affections."

"Your affections?"

She appeared lost, but Simon did not know if it was an act or not.

"Yes, I harbor great affections for you, my lady." Lady Whitley's eyes grew wide, and Simon couldn't help but tilt his lips upward. "Was it a secret? I did not think it was so much of one any longer."

"Simon, I—"

He held up his hand, and thankfully her mouth snapped shut. Simon wasn't entirely done with what he'd wanted to say.

"My lady, I asked for your company, not...whatever it is that you've been doing."

His companion suddenly grew another inch taller as her spine straightened, and her eyes narrowed. It appeared that Lady Whitley did not like to be called out in such a manner.

But then just as suddenly, she relaxed, her eyelids fluttering as she took one step toward him. They were less than a pace apart, and Simon tried not to luxuriate in their closeness.

"And who says that I do not also harbor affections for you?" she murmured, daring to look Simon straight in the eye as she said it.

Simon mimicked her, stepping forward so that Whitley was forced back, hitting a wall of shrubbery behind her. He ignored the way her eyes shone as he leaned in to breathe against her ear. "You think I do not know what it is like for a lady to respond to me—to my advances—in earnest?"

Whether it was because her closeness was intoxicating him or the sun was encouraging his brazenness, Simon did not know. But he brushed a hand over her golden locks before letting a single finger trail down her neck and dip into the hollow near her collarbone. Skin on skin. He was touching her in an utterly inappropriate way, but he couldn't stop. And she wasn't stopping him either.

"Batting your eyelashes and twirling your hair does nothing to fool me, my lady," he murmured, pulling back to find her sparkling eyes. "It isn't about that."

Whitley appeared fascinated. She licked her lips—slowly, in a way that genuinely tortured Simon—and asked, "And what is it about?"

Simon cocked a brow, surprised.

His finger traced its way back up her neck until he was running it along her jawline. Simon leaned even closer, his eyes dropping to her lips as his breath undoubtedly fanned across her pinkened skin. She shivered. Her lips parted, her breathing quickened. Even her head tilted back, giving him all the access in the world if he should want to kiss her.

Which he did.

But he wouldn't.

Simon smirked. "That is what it is about," he murmured.

And then he withdrew, dropping his touch from her body.

Lady Whitley's bewildered eyes eventually met his, and Simon marveled at her flushed face. He thought he'd made his point quite nicely.

And he also thought that perhaps he did have a chance with this woman after all.

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