He lightly touches her elbow, turning them to head toward the tables set up in the first section of the expansive back gardens. Somehow, this compliment about her work feels suspiciously like the entrée into one of her brother Richard’s endless diatribes about his world tour.
“When I was in Italy, I visited the Doria Pamphilj in Rome, and I saw the most exquisite portraits...”
Catherine bites back a sigh. Richard visited the Doria Pamphilj collection as well. She imagines there must be a guide or tutor in Rome who gives the same speeches year after year after year.
Mr.Dean continues his monologue and guides Catherine over to one of the tables, where MissRaught, Mr.Rile, MissLinet, Mr.Fortes, Lady Rosalie, and Mr.Sholle are already seated.
Her pride and triumph over winning are quickly outweighed by a deep sense of looming awkwardness. Catherine glances behind her, hoping there might be someone to divert them. But everyone is already seated for the tea service, save for Lady Jones, who appears to be setting up her own easel to capture the tea itself.
Catherine’s not sure how she feels about Lady Jones immortalizing this afternoon. She’s gotten the impression Lady Jonesfully understands each and every social dynamic at play at this garden party. Catherine’s not sure she wants to see any of them in paint.
Mr.Dean pulls out the chair one away from Lady Rosalie and graciously helps Catherine into it, plopping himself down between them like he’s never heard or seen a bad look in his entire life.
He’s moved on to monologuing about France now.
Catherine glances across the table at MissRaught and MissLinet, who are staunchly not looking at her and continuing to speak to their respective suitors. Mr.Sholle, seated almost directly across from her, keeps trying to catch her eye, and Catherine, without other recourse, forces herself to tune back in to Mr.Dean, lest Mr.Sholle get the wrong idea.
“I found myself lingering in the Galerie Médicis at the Louvre for hours. The way Rubens paints ethereal fabric was entrancing.”
Richard saysetherealtoo.
“I was always more partial to the Egyptian exhibit myself,” Lady Rosalie says when Mr.Dean takes a breath.
“You’ve been to the Louvre?” Catherine finds herself asking.
“The way he captures light, as well, seems to come down from the heavens, casting his subjects in a Godly presence,” Mr.Dean continues, as if Lady Rosalie hasn’t spoken.
Catherine finds herself leaning forward in her seat to see Lady Rosalie’s face, their eyes meeting while Mr.Dean continues to talk. And for a brief moment, they’re not fighting over Mr.Dean at all, but simply united in the same bemused suffering.
God, thisguy.
But it passes just as quickly. Lady Rosalie sits back in her seat, leaving Catherine rather alone beside thestill talkingMr.Dean.
She looks across the table and finds MissLinet momentarily looking over at her, anger still clear in her eyes. Catherine can fix this. Surely Mr.Dean will give her an opening.
As if on cue, Mr.Dean switches from exaltations about the Louvre to beginning a speech about the merits of Paris. It’s perfect.
“MissLinet was telling me how much she loves poetry the other day, and wished to go to a salon in Paris to hear some. Mr.Fortes, don’t you write sonnets? Have you ever shared them with MissLinet?” Catherine asks, a little overloud, because Mr.Dean will not shut up.
The whole table turns to look at her, and Mr.Fortes’ narrow cheeks stretch in a smile. “I haven’t had the opportunity, Miss Pine. But knowing MissLinet might appreciate them, perhaps I should send them along with a letter tomorrow?”
“That would be lovely,” MissLinet says. She glances at Catherine, a smile on her face, and Catherine lets her shoulders come down just slightly.
“I found the Champs-Élysées too congested for real enjoyment,” Mr.Dean continues to no one.
MissLinet rolls her eyes toward Mr.Dean, as if perhaps she’s heard him say this before.
“Mr.Rile, didn’t you do a wonderful sketch of the Champs-Élysées with the foundation for the Arc when you were there last summer?” Lady Rosalie cuts in. “Perhaps in exchange for her painting, MissRaught might like to have it?”
Miss Raught looks across at Lady Rosalie, blue eyes wide, a smile spreading slowly across her face as Mr. Rile bumbles toaccept the offer. Catherine blows out a breath. All right, they fixed it together. She supposes she can live with that.
She looks around Mr.Dean and finds Lady Rosalie staring back at her curiously. And Mr.Dean is STILL BLOODY TALKING.
Lady Rosalie’s lips quirk upward and everything seems to melt away. The way the sunlight hits her bonnet and outlines her face in a soft white glow—the way her eyes spark with amusement at their tandem frustration with Mr.Dean—the way her chest, her glorious chest, is rising and falling just a bit faster than it was moments ago—how can any of their friends or acquaintances be doing anything but staring at Lady Rosalie right now?
“MissPine?”
Catherine blinks, wrenching her gaze away from Lady Rosalie. Mr.Dean is apparently waiting for a response. He stopped talking,andasked a question?
