From a safe distance, her answer emerged hot and most definitely bothered. “And you’ll have to pardon me for saying, Lord St. Alban, that you haven’t the faintest clue of what you speak.” She shuffled another step back and spread her arms wide. “This house is a move in a forward direction.”
“Yet,” he began with frustrating deliberation. The Dutch reputation for stoicism was an absolute fact. Good thing the window wasn’t open. She might be tempted to push him through it. “You would decorate this house in paintings from past centuries, even going so far as to resurrect an old master or two. A future decked out in colors from the past isn’t exactly a move in a forward direction.”
She opened her mouth to issue a scathing retort before closing it. None was coming to save her. She hadn’t avoided his sting. Her weak reply was to retreat another step toward the door, toward escape.
“How about the works of painters living today?” he pressed. The dratted man was like a terrier with a bone. “How about your own pieces?”
A startled laugh burst from her. “My pieces? They aren’t open to public inspection.”
“But in the privacy of your bedroom?”
A sketch of him flashed across her mind. The near obsessive detail with which she’d drawn the firm curve of his lips certainly made it fit for a bedroom. Or a bordello. Or a stack of discards never to see the light of day.
And here she was now, staring at his real, live lips. Her eyes lifted to meet his, and she found there a keen interest. As if every bit of him was attuned to her response.
Well, too bad. She didn’t have to explain this part of herself. Not to him. He hadn’t earned it, and she wasn’t about to give it away. “You think me obsessed with the past?”
“Possibly.” His gaze continued to penetrate, refusing to let her go.
“You know nothing of my obsessions.”
A single eyebrow lifted. “I wouldn’t presume.”
Radiant heat spread through her. The cheek! They both knew his words were the opposite of his thoughts. She must change the subject before she became nothing more than a walking human blush. Perhaps it was time they return to the subject that had brought them together in the first place. “Do you think this a suitable house for entertaining?”
“Pardon?” That too-knowing eyebrow dropped. Good. She’d surprised him.
“I host a monthly art soirée where I showcase acurrentworking artist. Among other things, I need a house that can accommodate up to one hundred guests.”
He shuffled uncomfortably on his feet. “I, uh, might not be the most informed person to ask.”
“But you’re here to help, aren’t you?” she asked, her eyes wide and disingenuous. At last, her footing found purchase on solid ground. “In fact, my next soirée is tomorrow evening.”
~ ~ ~
Jake went stone still. Had he heard those words correctly? Or did he want to hear them so badly that his mind was playing tricks on him?
An invitation to Lady Olivia’s soirée was the opportunity he needed. Except he was expected to dine at the Dowager’s manse tomorrow evening. Miss Fox would be there, too. She’d been invited expressly for the purpose of furthering their acquaintance.
Well, he would have to beg off. There would be other dinners. Finding the thief and securing Mina’s future must take precedence over the stepmother hunt. And one thing was certain: his dealings with Lady Olivia Montfort were an entity altogether separate fromthat. The Dowager’s matchmaking schemes could wait.
“I would be interested in attending your soirée.”
Lady Olivia’s head cocked to the side, and the mean, little smile he’d caught yesterday as he’d clumsily extricated himself from the tiny desk now curled about her lips. “But I haven’t invited you.”
He blinked. It was true. She hadn’t. He needed to say something, anything, but she’d caught him out. So he did the only sensible thing and remained silent.
One tense second ticked by, then another, and another. At last, she took pity on him. “Of course, with your keen interest in art, and my sketches in particular, you might enjoy it. Guests will begin arriving at eight o’clock.”
She strolled toward the door and stopped. He would have sworn an oath that he’d glimpsed a confident swagger in her step. “And bring Miss Radclyffe. She and Lucy might enjoy an introduction, particularly if they will be attending school together.”
“Lucy attends your parties? It’s my understanding that young ladies aren’t allowed such liberties before they are Out.”
Amusement crinkled the corners of Lady Olivia’s eyes. The words had come out wrong. He sounded like a ninny. Like a Society harebrain.
“Of course she does, my lord. I hadn’t thought you such a stickler for theton’s rules. It’s somewhat, hmm . . .” she trailed off before pivoting on one heel and striding down the corridor.
Disappointing, he finished for her silently as his ears picked up the echo of her light step trilling down the stairs. An assessment he likely deserved.
