In the next instant, she felt a tug at her waist. Reginald released her and she was returned to Giles’s side.
“Pardon the intrusion,” Giles said, “but I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced.”
“Hm? Oh, right, you. Sounds like you were a great help to my niece here.”
“No need to phrase that in the past tense.”
“Oh? Is that so?” Reginald drew out the final syllable dubiously, and his oddly rough tone of voice sent a jolt down Fiona’s spine.
Uncle, why? And you too, Giles!
Giles did not seem fazed by Reginald’s insolence. He answered it with a perfectly executed Icy Scion stare.
“I hear you’ve had a bit of a rough time lately, yeah? You must be tired. I’ll handle things from here, so you run along and have a rest.”
“While I appreciate your concern, it’s unwarranted.”
Why does the mood feel so icy in here?!
Though Giles and Reginald were acting cordial on the surface, there was something much sharper underneath. Fiona had never seen either man act like this before. She had told her uncle by letter that she had a lover and that her engagement to Norman had been postponed. She also wrote to him about the counterfeit painting scandal that followed. But she kept the fact that her relationship was a charade secret, and Fiona never mentioned Giles by name in her letters.
When he saw Giles, an unfamiliar man, on Fiona’s arm, Reginald must have assumed Giles was the lover she’d mentioned. That was all well and good. It was clear at a glance from Giles’s clothing and mannerisms that he was of much higher status than their family, but as a free spirit, Reginald, of all people, should have understood a romance that flouted the conventions of social class. He shouldn’t have acted with such insolence.
A careful glance at her father behind him revealed a man who was practically foaming at the mouth. But she sensed danger not only in Reginald’s attitude but in Giles’s as well. This was yet another thing that she hadn’t expected.
“Fiona has told me so much about you,” Giles told Reginald. “Though I didn’t imagine you would be such a young gentleman.”
“Do I really look that young? I’m almost thirty.”
Giles raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Surely you jest.”
Reginald shrugged. “Not at all. Though I’ve always looked young for my age.”
It occurred to Giles then that whenever this man had come up in conversation, Fiona had never once described Reginald’s physical appearance. To be fair, Giles had never asked, but as Reginald was the younger brother of Fiona’s mother and had spent years traveling abroad, Giles imagined him as a middle-aged man—about the same age as his father. He’d been wrong; Reginald looked much younger than that. He must have been born years after Fiona’s late mother, and on top of that, he had a babyface. Between his appearance and the rough way he dressed and acted, Giles might have assumed he was Cecelia and Fiona’s brother. This man did not at all seem like an “uncle” to Giles. He could have passed for the same age as Giles and Richard—as their junior, even.
But there was an even greater concern than his youthful visage. Uncle, Fiona thought, seriously, what’s come over you?
Reginald was not interested in people—or perhaps it was more accurate to say that he was not interested in romance. In particular, he showed remarkable disinterest in courting aristocrats. He never initiated a conversation, and even with clients, he spoke only once Fiona or Roche had started the ball rolling. It was unusual for him to carry on a conversation of this length with a stranger for this long—and what was more, Fiona had never heard him speak so brazenly to a person before. This wildly out of character behavior struck Fiona as both surreal and suspicious.
“Well, however I look, I’m still Fiona’s uncle,” Reginald said daringly, not even trying to mask the daggers in his eyes.
Giles’s grip on Fiona’s waist only tightened. Invisible sparks flew between the two men, and Fiona piped up, desperate to smother them.
“Um, Uncle?”
Reginald reached out to touch her cheek then. His fingers, delicate and accustomed to holding a paintbrush, gently traced the skin beneath her eyes. With a sideways glance at Giles, he growled, “Did you make her cry?”
What? Fiona’s eyes widened at the unexpected question. She had indeed cried at the Bancroft mansion, but her eyes had dried hours ago, and she had fixed her makeup. She didn’t think her eyelids could still have been swollen, but apparently, the artist’s keen eye had caught something she missed.
“Well, I—”
Reginald cut Giles off. “My sweet niece courting someone who makes her cry… As her uncle, that kinda doesn’t sit right with me.”
Uncle?!
Reginald sneered and looked away in a huff. His antagonistic behavior had apparently come from a false conclusion aided by his freakishly keen eyesight. Fiona’s cheeks caught fire.
“N-no, it’s not what you think!” Fiona protested. “It was all me—”
“No means no! I’ll never give you my blessing to be with that jerk!”
“Uncle, please listen—”
“I’m not listening! La la la laaaa!”
Fiona was flustered by her uncle’s childish tantrum, and Giles was at a loss for words. Just when it looked like the trio was at an eternal impasse, Norman offered an olive branch. “Excuse me, but let’s not just stand here. Why don’t we move somewhere else?” The other people in the room were not privy to the circumstances of their spat, and Norman’s calm, casual tone of voice cut some of the tension.
“Why don’t we have a chat in the parlor?” Cecelia suggested. “Uncle only just arrived earlier this afternoon, and we haven’t had much of a chance to talk yet.”
“Oh! That’s right, Cecelia. Yes, let’s do that!” Reginald sang, spinning to face Cecelia and turning his back on Fiona and Giles.
The baron, visibly relieved, said timidly, “L-Lord Lowell, um, could you and I chat in another room?”
Giles took a breath. “Uh, let’s do this tomorrow. I don’t want to get in your brother’s way. I’ll take my leave.”
“A-are you certain, my lord?” The baron’s relief was palpable. Fiona offered him a silent apology.
What did they want to talk about? Oh, I suppose it’s about what happened the past couple of weeks. Giles had personally visited the Clayburn home when Fiona was invited to the Heyward march. He probably wanted to follow up with a detailed summary of her visit. What an upright man he was. With this understanding, Fiona turned in the opposite direction of the parlor to send Giles off.
Just as they were about to pass through the front door, Reginald looked over his shoulder and called out to them. “Ah, right. Are you free tomorrow? It’s okay if you’re not.”
His gaze was directed at Giles, who paused and then said, “I’ll make time.”
“All right. Noon, at Roche’s place.”
“Sure.”
Having received this confirmation, Reginald waved his hand and returned to the parlor. Seemingly unfazed by this further display of rudeness from Reginald, Giles bade Fiona’s terrified father farewell and then stepped outside with Fiona.
The sun had just set, and the sky was dyed the same ashy blue as the eyes of the man standing before her. Beautiful, Fiona thought, exhaling deeply as she took in the scenery. It had been a long day.
Giles’s carriage was parked by the front gate, but he paused before heading for the stairs by the entrance. “I’m good here. There’s no need to send me off, Fiona. You go back inside.”
“All right,” Fiona said, thinking that his concern for her safety seemed excessive, given that she was on her own property. Still, there was something heavy in the air, and after a recent succession of surprises, Fiona was happy to comply. She took a breath in and out, then curtsied deeply to him. “I am terribly sorry for my uncle’s rude behavior.”
“No, he was right to worry when so many of your circumstances have been concealed from him. You don’t have to answer this if you don’t want to, but…how much have you told your uncle about us?”
“Only as much as I’ve told my father. Well, maybe less—my letter outlining the more recent events might not have reached him.” She quickly lowered her voice and added, “I haven’t told him it’s an act. I would never.”
“All right.” Giles put a hand on his chin and studied Fiona’s face.
“Lord Giles?” she asked, discomfited by his scrutiny. Just when she was starting to wonder what was wrong, he reached out and touched her cheek. Or rather, he rubbed it. “W-was there something on my cheek?”
Giles was silent for a moment. “No.”
Now she was even more confused. She stood there, blinking rapidly, and Giles removed his hand from her cheek…and promptly replaced it with his lips. Fiona’s eyes shot open in disbelief.
“See you tomorrow,” Giles said. “Go back inside.”
His soft smile left her speechless. He gently turned her around by her shoulders, gave her a gentle tap on the back, and closed the door behind her. Her hand floated up to her cheek, and in her daze, she heard his footsteps receding from the door.
I…I just can’t get used to his kisses!
She realized belatedly that he had simply given her a “goodbye kiss,” as Marchioness Heyward called it, but it came as such a surprise to Fiona that she couldn’t react to it as if it were a small gesture. She knew, however, that if nothing else, she had to cool the fire in her cheeks before her uncle really gave her an earful. She retreated into the washroom, not the parlor, to wash her face…never realizing the spot Giles’s lips had brushed was the same spot where Reginald had kissed her.