It Takes Two to Tangle by Theresa Romain Page B

at him, Henry knew his grin had stayed in place and no one suspected the truth.
    Namely, that he had to fabricate a new kind of courage or he would never get even the ashes of what Baucis and Philemon had shared.
    With a rustle of fabric, a woman dropped into the chair next to Henry. The faint, crisp scent of citrus told Henry it was Frances, even before he turned his head.
    â€œMrs. Whittier.” He straightened in his chair, glad she sat to his left, his good side.
    â€œMr. Middlebrook,” she mimicked. “I hope you don’t mind if I sit with you. I have been evicted from the piano. As it turns out, your friend Mr. Crosby is by far the best musician of us all.”
    â€œSo Emily is dancing with Caro?” He twisted, peering around the broad circular back of his chair. Hmm. So she was.
    â€œMost women learn to dance with one another, you know,” Frances said. “I do believe your sister-in-law is more comfortable at leading than at following.”
    â€œI completely and wholeheartedly believe that,” Henry said drily. “What shall we do, then? Shall we play a game of our own?”
    She raised an eyebrow. “Very well. I’m thinking of something with blond hair and a red gown. Do you care to guess what it is? It’ll be easy because you’re probably thinking of it too.”
    He narrowed his eyes. “Ha. You are riotously funny.”
    â€œA transparent attempt to dodge the question. You have no guess, then?”
    He settled himself into his chair, wedging his numb right arm firmly in the angle where the seat back met the side. “Of course I have a guess, but you may not like it.” He gave her The Grin, his most charming smile. The old, carefree expression hadn’t sat so easily on his face for a long time.
    â€œTry me.” Her tip-tilted eyes looked roguish.
    â€œThe queen, of course. I’m a devoted servant of the Crown.”
    Frances snorted. “Nonsense; the queen hasn’t been blond for at least thirty years. And why shouldn’t I like that guess?”
    â€œBecause I spoiled your fun.” He gave a little shrug. With his right arm wedged into the corner of the chair, he could almost believe its stillness was normal.
    She held up a hand and ticked on her fingers as she replied, “At the present moment, I’m not losing money at cards, I’m not bumbling through a minuet on the piano, and I’m not racking my brain for the steps of a reel. So how could you think you’ve spoiled my fun?”
    â€œIf I’m the only remaining option, I should try to be more amusing.”
    â€œPlease do.” She folded her arms and looked down her nose at him in one of the haughtiest expressions he’d ever seen.
    â€œGood lord, Frances, you’re as stiff as a fireplace poker.”
    She relaxed, grinned. “At least I’m sitting in the right seat, then, in front of this lovely warm fire.”
    â€œIt is lovely, isn’t it? I painted the fireplace screen, you know.”
    â€œWell, it’s only an early effort. You are still relearning how to paint with your left hand. I am sure you will get better with time.”
    His head reared back. “I painted the screen long ago.”
    â€œOh. You did? It’s… hmmm.” She furrowed her brows, obviously trying to think of something kind to say.
    â€œIt’s been damaged over time.” Henry felt the need to defend himself, though a smile crept over his features. “It was never an astounding work, but I promise you when I finished it, it didn’t look like an ash heap had been sick all over it.”
    â€œI’d never have described it that way.” The dratted woman was trying not to laugh.
    â€œNo, but you obviously thought it. I’ve been insulted, and by my own fellow soldier.”
    â€œOh, come now, you know it’s not your best work. If you want a compliment, you can simply ask, and I’ll think of a