Olive’s eyes burned, but she maintained her smile. “Not as often as I’d like.”
“I see.” Another pause. “You’re teaching, then?”
A gentle inquiry, but the meaning was clear: That’s what you do now, isn’t it?
“Yes.” She refused to apologize or feel sorry for herself. Because contrary to what Mrs. Linwood so clearly believed, teaching was a noble profession, and one she excelled at. Wasn’t she one of the most sought-after teachers in the city? Besides, she enjoyed teaching children. They were so much easier than adults. Their questions were forthright, innocent. Not couched in double meanings.
“Miss Becket also performs,” Emil said abruptly.
“She does?”
“She’s quite the talent. In fact, the first time I heard her play, she commanded the audience. Had them begging for more.”
Olive’s gaze snapped upward, her ears warming at his assertiveness. Emil’s narrowed eyes were trained on Mrs. Linwood, the blue irises dark as an approaching storm. Surely…surely he wasn’t annoyed for her? She mentally shook herself. More likely, he was still bothered by the comments about his father. But still…why would he come to her aid at all?
“Well! That's wonderful,” Mrs. Linwood said with a relieved smile. “It was lovely seeing you again, Miss Becket.”
“Likewise,” she murmured.
As soon as Mrs. Linwood tugged her husband away, Olive let out a slow breath. She should be used to it by now—the way people looked at her, the careful distance they placed between what she once was and what she had become. But somehow, moments like this always seemed to find their way beneath her skin, settling into the quiet spaces of her ribs to declare: She wasn’t one of them anymore.
“Don’t do that.”
Emil’s sharp words brought her hurtling back. “Don’t do what?”
“Act like a timid lamb.”
She stiffened. She knew her friends sometimes referred to her as a lamb, but on Emil’s lips, the endearment sounded like an insult. “I’m doing no such thing.”
“You are. What happened to the woman in the pawn shop?”
“Hush,” she hissed, glancing around them.
“You had no trouble standing up to me then. Surely you can tell a couple of old classists to leave off.”
She scoffed. As if he had any idea what she should do. “Oh, why don’t you…”
He stepped closer, and her words careened through her head, tangling into an impenetrable bramble. Even in the crowded foyer, she could feel the heat emanating from his body. Could inhale his scent, a mixture of tobacco, polished leather, and musk. It was the scent of man, strong and virile. It swam through her, dizzying in its potency. It was wonderful. Terrible. Confusing. She took a deep breath and held it, hoping, vainly, that he would leave and she could exhale again.
“Go ahead, little lamb. Give me your most ferocious baa.”
The breath exploded out of her, ripe with resentment. “Why don’t you go—go—go find another pair of chickens!”
His brow furrowed. She wanted to run, but she was pinned by the storms in his eyes, all dark clouds and crashing waves. They stared at each other, time stretching until she was as taut as a piano string. Waiting, waiting for the hammer to fall. To strike and hurt. He could so easily hurt her. But then the storms cleared, as if a mighty wind had dismissed them with a careless flick. And he smiled.
“Well, now that was just adorable. ”
No, no, no. “I’m not adorable, you—you slug.”
But her insult only expanded his grin.
And she realized, with a confusing mixture of shock, dismay, and something dangerously close to pride, that it was a genuine smile. Not the hollow, false one he’d given Trudy. Her breath came in shallow pants. His smile was wonderful. Warm and crooked and unguarded. Worse than the storm. It threatened to soften her, to pull her under his command. Make her want things she had no business wanting. She wasn’t prepared for it. Had no idea how to protect herself against it.
So she tucked her chin and fled.
“Olive, dear, I think you’ve hidden in here long enough.”
At the familiar voice, Olive lowered the embossed program she’d been intently studying for the last half hour.
