“Good afternoon, Keating,” he said politely, finally.
“Good afternoon, Lord Kirke.” Ridiculously, she curtsied reflexively.
There was a silence.
“Forgive my...” He gestured vaguely to his torso, apparently meaning his current somewhat ungentlemanly disarray.
“Oh! No need.” She cleared her throat. “Forgivemefor intruding. I just... I wanted to...” She stopped. “That is, I was going to...”
He waited with maddeningly inscrutable patience.
“Have I done something wrong?” she blurted.
At once, wariness screened his features. “Have you? Your sleeves today strike me as impeccable.”
She remained mute because she hadn’t known she would dare even blurt that question. She was unnerved, and embarrassed. It seemed to have emerged of its own volition.
His expression softened.
He briefly passed a hand over his eyes. Then brought it down forcefully, and sighed.
“No. I do not think you have done anything wrong,” he said quietly.
He didn’t pretend he didn’t know to what she was referring.
Neither of them moved.
A moment later, very carefully very quietly, he asked, “Do you think that you have?”
She shook her head slowly.
She cleared her throat. “I’d... hoped that... despite... well, I hoped that we could still be friends.” Her face was so warm now she could feel her eyes burning.
His eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Are we not?”
She was mute again, her stomach churning. This kindness—thispoliteness—felt well-nigh unendurable. She found, once more, she couldn’t reply.
“Of course we are friends, Keating. My apologies if it seems to you that I’ve been preoccupied and not... friendly.” He gave the word a hint of an ironic frisson. Teasing her a little, quoting from one of their earlier conversations. “My schedule is very full.”
“I understand. It’s just... you’ve never been so polite. It’s awful. You’re not yourself at all.”
She felt once more like a complete cake.
She could see him struggling to maintain the detachment. His mouth finally curled up a little. “Well, that’s an indictment.”
“It just... it just feels as though you are avoiding me. And I don’t think you’ve lied to me yet.” She said it in a rush.
He froze warily. There was a scary little swift flare of impatience in his eyes.
How she hated the entreaty in her voice. She sounded like a child and she patently was not.
And yet, compared to him, and in his eyes, and compared to all the sophisticated women of the ton, no doubt she was.
She ought to leave him alone. She should leave it be.
He dropped his chin to his chest for a moment.
Then she watched his shoulders set as though he’d made some kind of decision.