Mr Simmons followed her in. He looked around the room critically, adjusting a vase of fresh white roses on the mantelpiece. He straightened a painting that was already straight.
"I'm sorry if the room isn't to your taste,"
Simmons said quickly. He sounded genuinely anxious. He clasped his hands behind his back. "Lady Margery informed us of your arrival in a sudden manner—barely two hours ago—so we didn't have time to ask for your preferences."
Delaney turned to him, wide-eyed. "Not to my taste? Mr. Simmons, it is..."
She stopped herself. She couldn't say, 'It is a palace.' She couldn't say, 'I usually sleep in a room the size of a closet.' She was Miss Kingsley, the respectable distant cousin. She had to act like she was used to silk walls.
"It is lovely," she finished softly. "Truly."
