Francis Abernathy was bored. Or at least, he claimed to be. It was a specific kind of boredom, the sort that made him lean too close to the fire, drink too much, and let his gaze linger where it shouldn’t.

Like now.

“You know,” he said, swirling the wine in his glass, “I think I rather like her.”

Richard glanced at him. “You don’t even know her.”

“Details.” Francis waved a hand dismissively, eyes still fixed on you across the room. You were reading—or trying to—utterly unaware of the attention. “She has that look, don’t you think? A little lost, a little tragic. Like a girl in a painting who doesn’t realize the artist is in love with her.”

Richard sighed. “You say that about everyone.”

Francis grinned, tilting his head against the back of the couch. “Yes,” he mused. “But this time, I might mean it.”