Simon had absolutely no clue as to what he should do about one, Lady Whitley.

In all actuality, it was a multi-faceted problem.

Firstly, there was the dilemma of whether or not to tell her that she had not kissed him, and had, in fact, kissed his twin brother.

On the one hand, Simon did not wish to deceive the lady. But on the other hand...hell, Simon hated to admit it, but she had been awfully receptive to him this morning. What were the chances that would continue once she discovered the kiss was with Sawyer.

God...would she—would she turn her attentions to him instead?

Simon shuddered at the thought.

There was another problem, as well. And that was the fact that Lady Whitley was quite adamant to ignore Simon this evening. As soon as she saw him coming her way in the parlor earlier, she had turned the opposite direction. And she would not even look his way throughout polite dinner conversation, instead swiveling away to listen politely to a conversation between Felix, Francis, and Nora. Now, as they flooded into the music room, it seemed as though she had run away entirely.

It was honestly quite unfortunate because in a matter of minutes, Simon's aunt Emilia was going to insist they all gather for a post-dinner musical performance put on by Princess Victoria. And Simon knew that Tory's pianoforte skills would be much easier to endure if he could somehow maneuver Lady Whitley to his side. Otherwise, he shall just be forced to spend the entire time searching for her blonde locks and bright blue eyes whilst discretely attempting to block the sounds from reaching his eardrums.

Simon was just about to resign himself to his fate when he saw it—he saw the flash of bright yellow-white curls that undoubtedly belonged to Whitley. No one else had hair such an ethereal shade.

And Simon wasted no time following that trail of hair, slipping through the far glass doors after her.

The balcony off the back of the manor was palatial, running the length of the stony estate walls. Whitley stood in the middle of it all, leaning on the pillared railing that bordered the balcony.

"Lady Whitley," Simon called, and she visibly stiffened. Her back was to Simon, and she didn't turn.

Simon wasn't deterred, crossing the balcony in swift steps. "Whitley," he called again, dropping his voice.

She spun, and the chill in the night air was nothing compared to her frosty expression. "What is it?" Her words were crisp, making Simon frown.

"Why do you avoid me so?"

Whitley pushed her pert little lips together. "That much should be abundantly clear, my lord."

Simon wanted to reach out to her but did not think it would be welcome. So he pushed his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. Finding Whitley's accusatory stare, he said, "I assure you, it is not."

To his surprise, she scoffed. "How did someone as brilliant as Madame Mischief spawn someone as dense as you, Viscount Payne?"

Simon's frown deepened. He hadn't expected such cutting remarks from her. Clearing his throat, Simon said, "I do apologize that I left you abruptly this morning, Lady Whitley, but that is what I have been trying to find you to discuss."

Her brows rose. "Oh, so you wish to speak of your rendezvous with my sister?"

"I—" Simon cut himself off, his head cocking to the side. "I am sorry. Your sister?"

Lady Whitley's eyes very nearly rolled into the back of her head. Her usually refined and restrained demeanor had vanished. "My sister," she repeated blandly. "Lady Blair."

"Lady Blair?"

Giving her head a little shake, Whitley retorted, "As I said, my lord, you are quite dense."

Simon shook his own head. "I simply do not know what you speak of."

Whitley crossed her arms in a huff, making all that golden hair bounce around her shoulders. Simon tried to ignore how the action also brought attention to the young lady's other attributes and shifted on his feet. Whitley bit out, "You deny seeing my sister after you left me to my own devices on the lawn this morning?"

"Well, yes, I saw her but—"

Whitley threw her arms in the air and then promptly began to stride the length of the balcony until she reached the stairs leading to the darkened gardens. Simon did not wish to chase her into the rows of hedges, so he spoke a little louder, a little more forcefully as he called, "Only because I was looking for Sawyer, and she was with him. And then I left them together in the library. Honestly, I do not know—"

"What did you say?" Whitley stopped and spun around, her eyes growing wide. She was perched atop the garden steps.

Simon was about to repeat his words, but she cut him off.

"So it was not you?"

Beginning to feel rather exasperated, Simon ran a hand through his hair, not caring anymore what it looked like. "Who was not me?"

Running her tongue along the edges of her lips, Whitley looked unsure. She glanced about the empty balcony before her eyes returned to Simon. "It was not...it was not you who I came upon, alone, with my sister in the library?"

A dawning sense of understanding appeared on Simon like cold morning dew. Slowly, he began to amble toward her, taking a moment to appreciate her midnight gown. It shimmered, reflecting the sky above them. It was so unlike anything he'd seen her wear before. It was not the pastel gown of a debutante but rather a beautiful creation that seemed to be made for only her—only a woman such as Whitley Ash. The sparkling navy offset Whitley's pure alabaster skin. It made her blonde hair glow. The blues of her eyes darkened as she peered across the balcony at Simon.

"No, my lady, it was not," Simon said softly. "I have not seen you since our walk this morning."

Whitley bit her lip for a moment. "It was your brother."

A soft chuckle escaped Simon's lips. "It would seem so."

He laughed because he was grateful for this misunderstanding to be made clear. But internally, Simon wished he could banish Sawyer to the ruddy continent for the rest of the summer. Damn that meddling bastard.

The truly subpar musical talents of Princess Victoria leaked through the glass doors, telling Simon that the musical entertainment—if it could even be called that—had begun. The plucking notes of some waltz or another wafted out to greet him. And there was just enough of a melody present for Simon to ask, "My lady, would you dance with me?"

Whitley's expression morphed into a wondrous one. She took a step toward Simon, and he thought that was rather good progress indeed. "You wish to dance? Now?"

Simon attempted to give her his warmest smile. "I wish to dance with you, yes." He held out his hand.

And for some reason, Whitley's slippered feet floated over the tiled floor of the balcony until she was gracefully resting her gloved hand in Simon's.

As Simon pulled her into him, he tried to match the beat of Tory's performance, but it was impossible. The damn princess was changing her tempo with every measure it seemed. So Simon ignored it all and made up his own beat.

A beat for just Whitley and Simon.

Whitley peered up at him, and they were so close now that he could see the faint blush on her cheeks. "I do not know what to say," she said quietly.

"You needn't say anything," Simon murmured. He was afraid that anything they might say would ruin the moment. Because it was a truly lovely moment. Whitley felt perfect beneath his hands as their feet traveled in tight little circles about the balcony. "I do not know what you saw in the library, but it was not me. After I yelled at my brother, I left them to go find you once more. And I have been trying to speak with you ever since, but you have been evading me, my dear."

Whitley's blush grew, and Simon longed to run a finger down that rosy cheek. But that would mean releasing his grip on her hand or her waist, which he was not willing to do. So he merely pulled her closer than was likely appropriate, so she could feel his words against her skin. "Do you believe me, Whitley?"

"Yes," she breathed as her eyes wandered Simon's face. And then those eyes landed on his lips, and Simon could barely handle it. Because he was tracing the edges of her rosy lips with his eyes as well.

And lord, Simon hated this. He hated that Sawyer had tasted those lips, and he had not. He hated that he could not do so right now, not with the windows that led into the music room. Not with the confusion surrounding them.

"Why did you go off to yell at your brother, Simon?" Her words were breathy, her gaze not meeting his.

Simon hated, also, that he must tell her the truth.

Their feet continued on, matching each other and not the music. And Simon knew that was about to stop.

"You see," he began. "I was rather confused when you spoke of our kiss, Whitley. Because I'm afraid..." Simon looked down. Which was a terrible idea because he was met with the perfect expanse of Whitley's decolletage. He cleared his throat and glanced up once more. Simon made himself meet the midnight sparkle in her eyes.

"My lady, we have never kissed." Simon brought them to a halt. Releasing her hand, he brought his own up to her face. Gently, he brushed his thumb over her mouth—it was a ghost of a touch—but he felt it. "Though I should wish for nothing more."

When he dropped his hand, Whitley gasped, "Whatever do you mean?"

But Simon did not get the chance to reply. And he wasn't certain if that was good or bad.

Whitley's eyes grew wide, her mouth popping open as she realized. A gloved hand flew up to cover that mouth, much to Simon's dismay.

She took a step away.

And Simon knew...the dance was over.

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