“No,” she said lamely. “I have no idea how he broke his nose.”
Mrs. Astorp gave her a kind smile. “Mr. Astorp is more interested in how he acquired his money in any case—now, that would be interesting to know.”
“Money, how dull,” Mrs. Hewitt-Cook mocked. “But I reckon by some criminal activity. Smuggling, perhaps? There is something decidedly piratical about him …”
Hattie decided she would rather endure her mother’s irate lecture than this. Yes, she would take a glass of pink champagne, sneak to the dessert table to scoop up some of the chocolates, and then take to her room. She would not steal another glance at Mr. Blackstone, not at how the fabric of his jacket pulled just a little across his back whenever he took a sip from his glass, nor at the way his hair curled at his nape.
Chapter 6
Greenfield’s daughter hadn’t fled the room at her first opportunity. She eventually moved out of his field of vision, but he felt her presence all throughout his first personal encounter with Julien Greenfield.
“I hear you recently nabbed a coal mine up in Fife,” the banker said as he shook Lucian’s hand in a practiced grip.
“I have. Drummuir.”
“I assume you know things about it that we don’t,” Greenfield said, “because it certainly looks like a lousy investment from where I stand.”
“I suppose we all have our pet projects,” Lucian replied. “Some in the North, some in the South.”
Greenfield’s eyes squinted when he chuckled. One of those deceptively jolly men. If one were to clothe him in plain brown tweed and remove his golden pocket watch and the heavy signet ring on his stubby little finger, nothing about him would suggest a man of both power and old money. He stood with a slight hunch and was short, rotund, and florid, as though he enjoyed wine overly much. His gaze was diffuse, though doubtlessly this could change in a quick second. He’d mastered the subtle art of having delivered the fatal blow long before the opponent realized it had been inflicted.
They kept the conversation brief—Lucian tactically mentioned his philanthropic plans for the arts and extended an invitation to a gallery tour for next Saturday, which elicited a frown from Greenfield’s wife. The banker, however, invited him to his smoking chamber in return. Usually, Lucian declined to enter smoke-filled rooms, but today he accepted. The moment the Greenfields’ attention was engaged by the next guest, he turned back to the room.
The daughter was still at the buffet, alone, pondering the sweetmeats.
He kept to her blind spot as he approached. With her champagne glass tilting at a precarious angle, she was awkwardly bending over a pastry platter to reach the farthermost chocolates. The position stretched her gown snugly across the generous flare of her hips, hips only a dead man would fail to notice. Heat filtered through Lucian. He had expected to find her changed from the urchin in his reception room, but he had still been taken by surprise when first seeing her here. Harriet Greenfield stood a little below average height, and with her gleaming red curls piled high and her luscious figure wrapped tightly in ruffles and green taffeta, a bonbon had sprung to mind, a fancy piece of French confectionary. If he were to step closer now and graze his teeth against the exposed curve of her neck, he’d probably find her tasting like cream candy.
He halted next to her, close enough to smell roses, and reached for a plate. “Why the Ophelia?” he asked, his voice low.
Pink champagne splashed onto the tablecloth. She spooked easily and like a cat, all four paws in the air.
“Your pardon?” She was keeping her body angled away from him.
“When you were at—”
“Hush,” she hissed, then cringed, presumably for shushing him. He randomly selected a pastry while she composed herself.
“Why the Ophelia?” she then said under her breath. “Because she is a marvel.”
“You’ve seen it before?”
Her gaze was darting around the room, he could tell from the corner of his eye. She was engaging him only to keep him from attracting attention. Undoubtedly, all attention was on them already. It was true that ladies appeared at his doorstep once in a while, and though they wanted what he offered in the bedchamber, at a social function such as this the same women would herd their precious daughters and nieces out of his reach at all speed. His little chat with Miss Greenfield was on borrowed time.
He turned to her just as she reluctantly turned to him. Her face was already familiar; he knew the smattering of freckles across her nose and that her plush bottom lip could taste like sugar. Her eyes were dark and shiny like the chocolates piling high on her plate. He knew the wholesome impishness was a decoy—he’d never forget the impressive slap she had dealt him. She was a southpaw, the only reason why she had managed to catch him, he had reflected later on—he hadn’t expected a blow from the left. He hadn’t expected a blow at all; no one dared raise a hand to him outside the boxing ring. Aoife Byrne would like her for that slap …