of her own eyes. Telling herself that perhaps something ailed her. Fearing she might be losing her vision entirely.
“But if you’ve never been examined, how can you be sure? Lights, dimness in your periphery, and odd shapes are all potential symptoms of an optical condition which might be easily corrected.”
The breeze pulled her hair loose from its pins, and Septimus reached to slide stray hair behind her ear. The simple kindness sped her pulse, and a delicious rush of pleasure spiraled through her, from her ear, down her neck, and across her chest.
He touched her too easily.
She enjoyed his hands on her far too much.
“The phenomena you speak of may be entirely normal,” he insisted.
Normal. The word had such a sweet sound to it, especially spoken in his low appealing voice. He smiled down at her as if he wished to mend her every worry, and could, given half a chance.
“We should go back to Penwithyn,” Win told him. He couldn’t make the specters go away. What she’d been battling for years seemed easily explained to him because he didn’t believe her.
She admired his logical mind. His desire to find answers. Even the fact that he hadn’t denounced her claim entirely. What must it be like to look at the world and believe there was a reasonable, rational explanation for every event?
He drew his finger across her cheek, and a shiver skittered down Win’s back.
“I already know something about your eyes.” He nudged her chin up, stroking his thumb against the edge of her jaw. “They’re unusually pretty.”
“Unusually pale.”
“Unique.”
“I’d prefer they were ordinary.” So unspectacular that she never turned a head out of curiosity or horror.
Though, she liked the way Septimus looked at her. Quite a lot.
“It’s you, Win.” He bent his head and placed the lightest of kisses on her cheek. “Whatever the color of your eyes,” he whispered, his breath warm against her face, “you couldn’t be ordinary if you tried.”
Her cheek tingled where he’d kissed her. The first kiss of her life. Her silly stubborn heart leapt even as Win pulled away from him.
“Did I say something amiss?” He looked miserable, and she hated being the cause of it. But his words—though tenderly spoken and no doubt meant as one of the compliments he wouldn’t stop heaping on her—served as a stark reminder.
She would never be normal. Not because of the way she looked but because of what she’d seen, where she’d come from, the secrets she could never reveal.
6
Sep remained at Penwithyn longer than he planned the next morning. Beyond taking the daily readings in his observatory, he intended a trip to Castle Keyvnor in order to work on the device he kept there.
But first he needed to speak to Win. He’d overstepped. Misspoken. Kissed her and upset her. Not at all the combination he intended.
Their kiss haunted him. He’d never wanted to kiss Miss Simmons so badly. So impulsively. Nothing in his life had torn at his defenses so quickly as Lady Winifred Gissing. He told himself he simply wished to help her. But his feelings were far less charitable. He wanted to know her, spend time with her.
He wanted to kiss her again.
Yet that impulse served no purpose but to drive him to distraction, so he focused on practical action. The previous night, he’d been up until dawn combing the works of James Ware. Books, along with a few medical instruments, comprised the sole inheritance he’d received from his father. Ware had committed his life to studying the maladies of the eye. With Sep’s minimal knowledge on the topic, the man’s books were hard going.
But he’d discovered, as he’d assured Win, that there were conditions which could explain the symptoms she described. With a simple examination, he could rule out whether she suffered from one of the conditions Ware described.
If she ever allowed him to touch her again.
He hadn’t managed a private moment with Win all morning. He’d seen her at breakfast, where he’d endured an animated conversation between her, Cornelia, and Mrs. Renshawe on the topic of the upcoming nuptials at the castle. Later he’d sought her out in the sitting room, only to find her reading quietly, while Mrs. Renshawe knitted in a nearby rocking chair. Eventually Cornelia joined them with a pile of mending in hand.
Sep took up one of his own books and tried not to stare at Win as she read. He struggled to focus on the printed words before him, rather than watch how her eyes danced across