* * *
Birding. There was no rational explanation why she should have said that. It had just happened. Her darker side must have taken over and made choices.
“What’s the haste,” complained MacKenzie, who was huffing after her as she strode toward the arcade.
Remembering MacKenzie’s limp the other day, Catriona immediately slowed—an effort, as she’d rather put distance between herself and the scene of her crime.
“Apologies,” she said, and looked her companion up and down with some concern.
MacKenzie’s frown eased. She smoothed the front of her jacket. “Milady,” she said, and halted entirely.
Oh dear. That was her chaperone face. And tone.
“I’ll say it here and now,” MacKenzie began. “I feel it’s not appropriate for you to play chess with the young man.”
She balked. “It’s chess. In a public place, and chaperoned.”
“It’s not the chess,” MacKenzie said with a speaking glance. “It’s whatever else is being played. The gentleman was rather flirtatious.”
Catriona’s brows pulled together. “We discussed the effect of international capitalism on women’s position in society.”
“That’s right.” MacKenzie nodded gravely. “Sweet music to your ears.”
Her first instinct was to protest some more, but a lady must not protest too much. Birding. The simmering heat in Elias’s eyes still warmed her face. It had sparked a tingling sensation in her lips, too, as if they had been keen on more scandal right away. She dropped her fingers from her mouth.
“I appreciate your counsel,” she said to MacKenzie. “But there’s nothing to worry about.”
The first round of emotional inoculation hadn’t quite gone to plan, but it hadn’t been a full-fledged disaster, either. She had actually enjoyed herself when Elias had explained about the silk workers with an ease and level of detail that revealed a depth of knowledge. Briefly, her body had forgotten that it wanted his body. She had felt at ease, calm but intrigued, a very pleasant state of being. Things had gone wrong only when she had tried to be flirtatious, because he obviously outclassed her by miles on that terrain.
When she was back at her desk and had settled her nerves, she made a decision. She would try again rather than abandon the experiment. She would accept Mr. Khoury as her table partner at the Blackstone dinner, and she would dust off the red gown she kept in the wardrobe in St. John’s for the rare occasions she cared to put herself on display. As long as she didn’t try to be charming, the dinner would go brilliantly.
Chapter 10
Director’s apartment of London Print, London
How much time do I have left?” Lucie asked without looking up from the bridal magazine on her office desk.
“You have . . . four more hours,” came the reply from the sofa, and the silky-smooth voice of her intended made her sneak a glance after all.
Tristan Ballentine was in shirtsleeves, stretched out on his back, his feet on the sofa’s armrest. With his right hand, he was holding up a manuscript a hopeful writer had submitted to London Print; his left hand rested lightly on Boudicca the cat, who had rolled up in a perfect black circle on his stomach. A great place for a nap, as Lucie could attest—when one had time for such a thing. Hattie’s Friendly Society dinner was tabled for five o’clock, but half of Lucie’s correspondence was still unwritten. The Property Act would not amend itself. Yet her desk was cluttered with fabric samples. She pushed the magazine away.
“I should have recruited Catriona to help with the amendment lobbying instead of starting a new campaign,” she said. “Shall we cancel the dinner?”
Squinting, Tristan turned his head toward her, and his hair gleamed like freshly polished copper in the sunlight that fell through the dormer window. “What’s the matter, darling?”
Even with a squint, he was beautiful. He would have no trouble looking bloody magnificent, whatever he wore at the altar.
“Where’s a meddling mama when one needs to plan a wedding?” she groaned.
“Your mother offered,” Tristan pointed out. “You refused any assistance.”
“A mama other than mine,” she amended. “I should gladly have someone else arrange this wedding and all its details, and that includes the dress.”
A lazy smile spread over Tristan’s face. “So many different shades of white,” he said.
She scoffed. “I shall have a red one made, that much I know. I just can’t decide whether scarlet, ruby, or crimson.”