“‘No,’ mostly.” Susan rolled her eyes. “I believe it to be his favorite word.”
“You didn’t…take my advice? And learn more about him?” Evangeline held her breath.
“Hmmm.” Susan cast her a calculating look. “I learned he’s an artist, and painted all the landscapes in Blackberry Manor.”
Evangeline’s mouth fell open.
“Youdidn’tknow! I was certain you already knew.”
“How would I know such a thing?”
Susan’s forehead creased. “I don’t know…something in his eyes when I asked if he’d paint your portrait.”
“If he’d paint my—good heavens, Susan. What a question.”
Susan’s lips curved into a catlike grin.
After another moment of silence, Evangeline could withstand the suspense no more. She could barely withstand the urge to throttle her. “Susan. What did he say?”
“Nothing.”
Evangeline frowned. “Nothing?”
“I suppose that’s better than ‘no,’ which is what he said to every other query, including the question of whether he’d paint mine.”
“Oh.” He’d said no to Susan, but he hadn’t said no to her. Interesting. Evangeline bit back a relieved smile.
Susan’s eyes narrowed. “Are you sure you don’t have a tendre for him?”
“I—what?” Evangeline shook her head vigorously. “No, I…I’m leaving soon.”
“That’s no kind of answer. You can have a tendre for him even if you don’t marry him, just like I can marry him even without a tendre. Oh, don’t make that face. I know you believe in marrying for love. But if this is what I must do to escape Mother and rejoin Society, then this is what I must do. If there were some other recourse, believe me—I would not be pursuing him.”
“Why not?” Evangeline glanced at Mr. Lioncroft from the corner of her eye. Who wouldn’t want a man like that to call her own?
Susan sighed. “I don’t imagine for a second Lionki—Lioncroft is interested in me. In fact, I’ve come to suspect thirty years of marriage wouldn’t change that fact. If I thought for a second I’d ever be welcome in Society again without sacrificing myself to such an arrangement, I’d—”
“Touch me.” Evangeline held out her hand, palm up.
Susan blinked. “What?”
“Give me your hand,” Evangeline insisted. “Now.”
“But you’ll get a—”
“Yes, I know. Just try it. Perhaps I’ll see you in Society. Meeting a man you do like, who loves you madly.” Someone other than Mr. Lioncroft.I want to see Susan in Society without Mr. Lioncroft. Susan in Society without Mr. Lioncroft. Susan in Society without Mr. Lioncroft.
Tentatively, Susan placed her fingertips atop Evangeline’s palm.
Dozens of expensively dressed ladies and gentlemen mill about an ornate lobby, some sipping wine, others checking fobs or polishing opera glasses.
Francine Rutherford’s gloved hand connects with Susan’s face, sending her spectacles flying.
Susan claps her own gloved hand to her cheek and leaves her spectacles, broken, on the ground. “I-I—”
“Liar,” Francine announces. The crowd hushes, turns, gawks. Francine balls up the paper and tosses it at Susan’s feet. “Miss Stanton, I simply cannot condone such ill-bred behavior. Now that I know you for the sneak and scandalmonger you are, I am certain no one of any import shall appreciate your presence either.”
With her nose thrust high, Francine pivots and stalks off through the parted crowd.
