The Wicked Heir (Spare Heirs #3)(19)

She lifted her face to the night sky once more. “St. James, that doesn’t make any sense at all.”

“Perhaps not.” He chuckled.

“Thirty-four,” she announced a moment later.

“Are you guessing my age now? You’ve already pegged me as a pirate,” he teased.

“That’s how many stars I’ve counted thus far. You’re far older than a mere thirty-four.”

“I am not. How old do you think me?”

“Forty…or perhaps older than that?”

He gaped at her. First his smile and now his age? “You were closer with your count of the stars.”

“Really?”

“Really!” He didn’t know why he was so insulted. How was this nymphlike creature able to get to him? To the rest of the world he was a solid wall, the guardian and watchman for an army.

“It’s because you work too hard. I’ve heard it ages one’s looks. I suppose it’s true. Gentlemen of leisure enjoy dancing and looking at stars—”

“Let me guess. They have heartfelt smiles as well?”

She shrugged but didn’t turn to look in his direction. “I meant no offense. There’s good in everything, even growing old and having an insincere smile. It allows you that stern look of decisiveness you so enjoy displaying.”

The wood nymph was correct in a way. He shouldn’t care about smiles or age. He was St. James, and he had a society to oversee. He was stern, decisive, and always in control—he had to be. This was the path he’d chosen, and he enjoyed his life.

He shifted a fraction closer to Isabelle without her noticing his movement. He had a job to do this evening, and it didn’t involve staring at the stars, no matter how diverting his current company was proving to be. His gaze dropped to the necklace once more.

“Where did you get this?” he asked, lifting the locket from her warm skin to hold it in his fingers.

She flinched at his glancing touch, and her gaze flew to his. Her eyes were wide as she watched him—or was she waiting for him to release her? He wasn’t certain, but he didn’t move. With a swift yank, he could remove it from her throat. He could finish this encounter entirely. But he didn’t.

The moment hung between them. He stood, grasping the chain around her neck, and she stayed, clearly stunned by his sudden movement. He should have known better than to lift the piece from her body, and now she stood far too close, her chin raised as she watched him. But there was no going back now.

Fallon could easily blame his lapse in good judgment on his surprise at seeing this locket, of all pieces, hanging around Isabelle’s neck, but that would be a lie. The effort not to touch her skin was growing more difficult every time she was near. It could only be likened to the need to place one finger upon the petal of a perfect rose blossom when it was spotted in bloom in the garden.

If only for a moment, he wanted to be part of something this beautiful. The heat of her skin warmed his fingers even though he was only close, yet not touching her.

He had no right. If anyone should be so close to her, it should be Brice. She was enamored with him, after all, and only wanted Fallon in the role of friend. His grasp tightened about the locket. Was this how friends acted toward one another? He knew the answer but didn’t back away. He never backed away from anything.

But this was Isabelle—sweet, innocent, and now looking at him like perhaps he was the villain of the story in her mind and not the faithful friend after all. Her breaths were shallow. A mix of confusion and curiosity now lived in her eyes.

“I found it among my father’s things,” she finally answered, but her gaze shifted away as she spoke. She was lying. “I believe it’s my mother’s.”

“Is it? It’s unusual.” Where had she gotten the blasted thing, and why was she lying to him about it? His suspicions were growing by the second. But as every part of the sordid tale involved the Spare Heirs Society, he could hardly discuss it with her. He forced his grip on the piece to loosen, his fingers brushing over hers for a second as she took the locket from him.

The tension in her gaze eased as she shifted half a step away from him, her eyes returning to their usually sunny gleam. “Isn’t it lovely? I don’t think my family even noticed I’d added it to my ensemble, but I think it really…” Her words drifted away as she watched him. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.” Damn. He’d been a child the last time he’d allowed someone such easy access to his thoughts. But ever since he’d met her, his guard had been slipping away. What was it about this girl that had him forgetting every carefully honed skill he possessed? Perhaps it was simply the presence of that locket and the memories it held inside its heart-shaped enclosure. “It’s…nice.”

“I thought so too, although I’ve yet to be able to pry it open,” she said, now looking down at the locket.

“That may be for the best,” he returned. The less she investigated the necklace, the better. His mind raced to create a list of ways she could have come into possession of the piece. She could have found it among her father’s things. But Knottsby wouldn’t have been so careless as to leave the damned thing lying about. Fallon hadn’t even thought the man had kept it. Which left Reginald Grapling…

“It may contain someone’s true identity or the name of a secret love. I wish I knew—”