cheek, and Mina leaned back as Simon rubbed at the place with a chuckle. But as she spouted apologies, Simon merely smiled and removed the comb, placing it on the bedside table.
Shifting, Simon moved them to rest against the headboard, and she wrapped an arm around him. It was sad that their morning outing was so often curtailed by the winter weather, but in moments like these, Mina was not terribly upset about it.
“You’re not regretting Finch’s visit, are you?”
Simon’s question had Mina lifting her head to meet his gaze.
“Why would you ask that?”
“I…” His words faltered, and Simon’s gaze drifted away from Mina. “No reason in particular. I simply worry you are unhappy.”
That gave Mina pause. She had thought she hid her feelings better than that. There was something so vexing about Mr. Finch, and Mina did not care for his presence, but she did not wish to chase Simon’s friend away; he enjoyed the fellow’s company for some odd reason.
“…she is too mousy to cause you much bother, too unattractive to have a wandering eye, and so firmly on the shelf that she’d likely accept any offer she got…” Mr. Finch’s words had made an impression on Mina—as well they should. No woman wanted to hear herself described in such a manner, and Mr. Finch’s unfiltered opinion had served as a sound reminder of how the world viewed Mina.
That ball.
All things considered, Mina was grateful for Mr. Finch’s stark assessment: it was the reason Simon first took note of her. Or rather, the embarrassment that she’d overheard Finch’s harsh critique had driven Simon to approach her. Mina had long ago given Simon the forgiveness he’d sought, but to date, Mr. Finch had not acknowledged his part in it, and he’d been the main instigator. Perhaps Mina could overlook it as a bit of brutally honest conversation between gentlemen, but Mr. Finch continued to spout harsh critiques of the ladies around him. His words about Miss Barrows were enough to show that the fellow was callous and prideful.
Mina adored her husband, but he had terrible taste in friends, and she wanted nothing more than to chase away yet another who’d invaded her home. However, Simon was happy his friend was visiting. Mina didn’t know why her husband trusted Mr. Finch’s input on estate matters, but he did. And Mr. Finch wasn’t as terrible as their last visitors; he may be apathetic towards Mina, but he made no move to chase her out of Avebury Park or force a wedge between her and Simon.
A squeeze of her husband’s arms drew Mina from her thoughts.
“Are you unhappy?” he asked.
“Of course not, Simon.” Perhaps not the entire truth, but it was true enough that she felt no twinge of guilt for speaking it. Simon was happy with Mr. Finch around, which made Mina happy in turn. She simply needed to recall that when Mr. Finch was near.
“You would tell me if you were?”
“Of course,” she said, pressing a kiss to Simon’s jaw. He turned and met her lips, and Mina reveled in that touch, for it spoke more than his words.
“I love you, Mina. Body and soul.” His words echoed the sentiments he’d given her that first time he declared his love, and Mina clung to them.
“I know, Simon, and I love you, too.” But before Mina could say another word, he kissed her so soundly that she could not form another coherent thought.
Chapter 12
There were few greater joys in this world than passing a few hours with a friend. Refreshment, a plush armchair, and a blazing fire on a cold winter’s day added exponentially to that felicity, and Finch found himself in possession of all four.
Legs outstretched, Finch picked at the remnant sweets and found himself wishing for a bit of Lady Lovell’s gingerbread. He’d rationed out Miss Barrows’ gift over the past fortnight, but now he’d be forced to go begging from Buxby Hall when he wanted more. The cook outright refused to share her recipe with the Kingsleys’; some nonsense about demanding a biscuit recipe in return, which was soundly rejected despite his attempts to broker a negotiation.
The fire sent out a wave of heat, chasing away the chill seeping in from the windows, and though Finch would like to take off his boots and change into a dressing gown, his present situation was near perfect.
Finch glanced at his companion. One of Simon’s hands rested against the arm of the chair, his fingers tapping a rhythm against the leather,