With a broccoli floret in my hair and béarnaise sauce smeared on my sleeve, I burst through the double doors and onto the balcony. To my great disappointment, there was no staircase, no exit. I was, in a word, trapped.
The cold air settled on my skin and I shivered, wrapping my arms around myself as I leaned against the railing and gazed up at the night sky. I was a fool for thinking I could fit into this world.
I sank to the ground, tucking my dress over my knees for warmth—unladylike, but I didn’t care. But a few minutes later, when the balcony door creaked open, I stood up quickly. I had company. Cigar smoke clouded his face and top hat.
“My dear, what on earth are you doing out here? It’s cold enough to snow!” he exclaimed, the smoke parting to reveal his tall frame and distinguished face. He was older than me, perhaps by ten years or more. “Where’s your coat? You’ll freeze to death.”
I nodded as I steadied myself. “I…just needed some fresh air.”
The man eyed me curiously, his mouth forming a slow smile. “Or could it be that you’re hiding from someone?”
I sighed, eyeing the béarnaise sauce on my sleeve. “Obviously you saw what…happened in there.” I turned away from his gaze. “Please, sir, just leave me alone. I’ve already endured enough for one night.”
“I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about, but if you don’t come inside soon, you’ll die of exposure.” I shivered, which is when he suddenly slipped off his tuxedo jacket, draping the exquisitely cut garment over my shoulders, its fabric still warm from his body.
“Thank you,” I said, straightening the collar so it covered my neck as it released the aroma of pine and some other familiar yet elusive note.
“So, you really didn’t see the…debacle in there?”
As he shook his head, there was something disarming about his expression, so I began to relay the series of unfortunate events that led me to the balcony. I pointed to my sleeve with a sigh. “And for the record, this is béarnaise sauce.”
He laughed, but not in a mocking way. “Well, you wear it quite well.”
“It’s all the fashion these days,” I replied, bolstered by his kind eyes.
He cocked his head to the right curiously, as if trying to place me. “I don’t think I’ve seen you here before. I can assure you that if I had, I would not have forgotten you.” His voice was deep, and he spoke with a disarming confidence. “Wait,” he said, as if struck by a memory. “Were you here last weekend for that ridiculous soirée that the old viscount hosted?”
“Yes,” I said quickly. The lie flew out of my mouth with such speed, I was stunned by my own brazenness.
“That speech he gave!” he said. “Could it have been any longer?”
“Or any duller?” I added, trudging deeper into my deception.
He smiled. “Why have we never met? You’re…different than most of the women here.”
My cheeks flushed.
“I meant that as a compliment, Miss…”
“Wilkins. Eloise Wilkins.”
“Miss Eloise Wilkins,” he said, taking another puff from his neglected cigar as he glanced through the window to the dining room. “The women in there are—well, how do I put this delicately?” He paused, then nodded. “They’re rather…forgettable—all the same, down to their gloved hands.”
At first, I assumed his words were a veiled commentary on my own gloveless hands, but the thought vanished when he reached for my hand and kissed my bare wrist ceremoniously. “How do you do?”
“Well, I’ll admit, I’ve had better evenings…” I withdrew my hand and tucked my arms back inside the warmth of his jacket.
“Tell me,” he continued, smiling, “has your family been members here for a very long time?”
I nodded tentatively. “My father was a…very private man. He…kept his name and his business interests far from the public eye. After he passed…it all went into a…trust for my mother and me.”
“Sounds like a smart chap,” he said, “and an admirable one.”
If only he knew how far from the truth that was.
“Well, look at us, standing in the cold outside the stuffiest club in London where it apparently has taken us a lifetime to meet.”
“And what brings you here this evening?” I asked, attempting to deflect his attention from my past.
He grinned at me curiously, rubbing his chiseled jawline. “Your turn to sum me up, I see?
“Maybe,” I said, playing along.
He shrugged. “The answer is simple. My father made a name for himself in the car business, and membership was a necessity.” He sighs. “And to your question, why am I here? Simple: I’m a good son.”
“What do you mean, exactly?”
“Well, Miss Wilkins, you see, when you’re the eldest son, and you’ve just turned thirty-four, as I have, without a marriage prospect on the horizon, your family, naturally, becomes obsessed with finding you a wife.” He took a puff of his cigar. “Tonight is my sister’s latest, and worst, attempt.”
I smiled. “So, I gather a proposal isn’t imminent, then?”
He walked closer to the window, motioning for me to follow. “See the woman at the table in the middle of the room—pink dress, feathers in her hat?”
I eyed the stylish woman with high cheekbones and glowing skin. “She’s beautiful,” I said, turning back to him. “So, what’s the problem?”
He glanced back at the dining room. “I’d rather be alone forever than have a dull companion.”
I watched regret, or perhaps nostalgia, sweep across his face. “For all of its stuffiness, this really is a grand old place, isn’t it?” He leaned in closer. “Just last month, Princess Margaret sat at that table.” He pointed through the windows. “Perhaps you saw her.”
I nodded, grateful he didn’t press me for details.
“I was eight years old when we moved to London from the countryside,” he continued. “Our family was invited to a welcome lunch. Mother insisted I wear a suit, and I pitched a fit of royal proportions. As for tonight, my sister found out that I’d be meeting a group of American businessmen here, and she hoodwinked me into staying for dinner.” He smiled, and I immediately thought of Frank. “American men, they all sound like—”
“Cowboys,” we said in unison, then laughed.
Our eyes locked for a long moment, and I stifled another shiver as he extinguished the remains of his smoldering cigar on the balcony’s ledge.
“Care for a cigarette?” he asked, pulling a pack from his shirt pocket.
I’d never taken up the habit, but for some reason, I nodded anyway and a moment later we were both sending out puffs of smoke and watching them collide in the cold air.
“So, what about your date?” I asked, feeling a tinge of empathy for the woman inside.
“She’ll be fine,” he said with a shrug. “She’s been making eyes at a gentleman at the bar all evening.”
“Well, where do we go from here?” I asked, looking up at him. “It seems there’s no exit from this balcony. I guess we’re—”