“What do you want?” She flattened against the window. Her skin pebbled, her limbs froze, as he approached close enough to grab her. “Get away from me.”
His lips moved without sound, as he pulled something from behind his back. Another dried rose. He pressed it to her chest, fingers grazing her collarbone—
With a cry of protest, she darted to the left and crashed into something. A pole screen. She scrambled back to her feet, but when she darted for the door, it was already open.
She glanced about the study with terror.
The man was gone.
Miss Whitmore was not here.
Simon pulled shut the whining iron gate, the light drizzle of rain cool on his skin. He glanced back into the graveyard through the bars. A shame that it happened this way—that he had come to the graveyard to search out someone else and stumbled upon Father instead.
He should have come sooner.
He should havethoughtto come sooner.
The sandstone monument, the winged cherub, the engraving of Father’s name all deepened the sense of realism. He was truly gone. Why did it seem as if Simon was still battling with him? As if it was still a force of wills, a hard-run race to see whether father or son would back down first?
Simon wiped rain from his face and shook his head. None of that mattered now. He had finally succumbed to Father’s demands and now it was impossible, due to Miss Whitmore’s unexpected rejection.
Simon was not certain whether to thank her or change her mind. Mayhap he lacked the strength for either.
From the corner of his eye, a flash of blue made him turn.
A figure darted down the church’s stone steps, wearing a light blue pelisse and straw bonnet. Her pace seemed frenzied as she fumbled with her bonnet ribbons and ducked her head against the increasing rain.
He stepped to the center of the flagway as she neared. “Miss Whitmore.”
She startled, hand flying to her chest. “Mr. Fancourt.”
“The butler at your town house mentioned I might find you here. I was hoping I might have a word with you.”
A frown creased between her brows. “I do not think—”
“Do not worry. I did not come to persuade you into marrying me.” Despite the gravity of the words, an errant smile tugged at his lips. “I will be brief. I promise.”
“We can hardly talk here.”
“My carriage is across the street.”
Perplexity flickered in her expression—odd, as she usually kept her face so schooled—and she glanced behind her. Was she worried someone might see? After the ordeal at the picnic a week ago, he was not certain he could blame her for such trepidations.
Likely she would not marry him now if he begged on both knees.
Which he would never do.
“Very well.” The words were a whisper as she avoided his gaze. “But let us hurry.”
He took her arm, looped it with his, and guided her across the puddled street. They climbed into the carriage. Outside, the driver shut the door.
Silence, save for the rain drumming the roof of the carriage and the rustling of her dress as she smoothed the wet wrinkles with vigor. Was it his imagination, or did her hands tremble?
“I realize this may not make much sense to you, but the day of the picnic, you spoke to someone.” He hesitated. “In the hall, just before you found me in the smoking room.”
She nodded.
“Who was he?”
