“Excellent event. They ought to raise plenty of funds for the orphanage.”
“Yes.”
James’s brow tightened and a furrow formed across the bridge of his nose. “Might I get you some refreshment? I saw some bonny late-season strawberries on one of the tables.”
She murmured something under her breath and he bent his head toward her. “Beg pardon?”
“I’m allergic,” she said, only marginally louder.
“Allergic?”
“To strawberries.”
“I see.” James slid his hands into the pockets of his trousers and rocked on his heels. Glancing down at the top of her head, he noted the painfully straight part of her hair, and then looked up at the painting which held her interest so strongly.
She’d proven herself an engaging conversationalist where few others had, endowed with remarkable insight. He’d anticipated another discussion with her would result in the same delight. Yet all he was getting was a cool reception and virtually monosyllabic responses.
He drew a breath. “I understand that beyond Manet’s Impressionist work, he was also once offered the chance to illustrate the French edition of Mr. Poe’sThe Raven.”
Her sharp intake of breath and quick peek up at him offered the impression that his comment intrigued her. Her gaze shifted from him, back down the main gallery, and back again. A long exhalation was her only response.
A moment later, she spoke again. “Mr. MacKintosh. I really do not want to be rude, but I have very few moments in my life where I’m utterly alone and they never last long enough or long at all, for that matter. So, it would please me greatly if I could beg your understanding in this instance to allow me to savor the moment.”
In other words,go away.
James gaped at her.
When he didn’t immediately turn away—whether out of shock or obstinacy, he wasn’t certain, as he’d never been so acutely spurned before—she turned her head and looked directly up at him. Her eyes not the bland brown he’d thought them, but an odd blend of gold and a deep hyacinth. Amethyst fire dancing, yes, with annoyance.
“You haven’t children, I know, but do you have siblings, Mr. MacKintosh?”
“Aye, ten of them.”
Her eyes narrowed, a wee wince as if it somehow pained her to hear the number. “Then you’ll understand what I mean.”
James’s fingers curled around the gold locket he always carried with him, stroking the fluted design raised on the front. He might argue that he didn’t understand. He might press her for further conversation, but what was the point? Had he truly thought those modest bodices and lace collars buttoned up to her chin hid something more than just another bland Knickerbocker matron? That a lady passionate with a cause lay beneath her tidy exterior? That intelligence lay simmering just waiting for a challenge?
Clearly he’d been mistaken that there was something more to her. That moment’s conversation about his new Benz had evidently been an anomaly.
All he’d learned was that she lived up to her name.
And she was just the same as the rest, after all.
He’d be damned if he let Maggie rope him into another one of these things. Or even let himself think for a moment that there was something more noteworthy to be discovered among New York’s eligible ladies.
They were all alike. No depth or a layer to be seen.
“Very well, Mrs. Eames, I shall leave you to your savoring.”
* * *
Prim watched Mr. MacKintosh depart with a small pang of regret. For a gentleman to propose any conversational topic beyond the usual niceties, the weather, or gossip was unusual. Certainly at an event like this, one might feel compelled to talk about the art itself, but in an abstract manner. All polite and polished.
That James MacKintosh had done so twice now, elevated him in her estimation. That he’d offered an observation containing information she hadn’t yet been aware of, even more.
Oh, she’d have loved to enjoy such a conversation…if it weren’t for the hovering presence of her brother Shane and her official escort for the evening, the inestimable marital candidate Mossman Leachman. She might have indulged for a moment if they weren’t scrutinizing her from just down the gallery.
However, a moment of engaging discourse wasn’t worth more complaints that she was flirting or lectures about encouraging an inappropriate suit.
