It was only from the corner of his eye that James caught that kiss. Straitlaced Mrs. Eames in a secluded corner of the ballroom up on her toes kissing a blond gentleman, too warmly for public viewing in his opinion.
“Mr. MacKintosh? Are you quite all right?”
James looked back down at his partner. “Beg pardon?”
“You missed a step, I believe.” The girl flushed as if embarrassed to be pointing out his faults.
“My apologies, Miss Gould.” Focusing his efforts on the dance, he executed a flourishing turn to make up for his inattention. A giggle escaped the Gould girl.
Aye, that’s all she was. A girl.
“Do you know who Mrs. Eames is partnering with?” The question was made verbal before he even knew he was asking it.
Miss Gould frowned but looked around dutifully. “Are you interested in Mrs. Eames, sir?”
“There’s nothing about Mrs. Eames that interests me.”
Or there hadn’t been. Until out of the tedium of the evening, she’d proven herself quite fascinating.
Clearly, he wasn’t the only one who thought so. The man she’d welcomed so affectionately was laughing now as if she was the most witty woman he’d ever known. James hadn’t yet seen so much as a smirk turn her lips.
Who was he? A friend? Something more?
It would be hypocritical of him to judge. She was a widow. A wealthy one at that. He’d never thought less of Larena for their affair. It would be unfair to think less of Prim Eames for the same.
Except Prim, polite to the point of coldness and usually reserved in conversation to the point of boredom, had never seemed the sort.
Perhaps she had hidden layers.
James snorted derisively. A woman like that? The only layers she had could be counted in petticoats.
CHAPTER 3
Come, my conservative friend, wipe the dew off your spectacles, and see that the world is moving.
~ Elizabeth Cady Stanton
Two days later
“You’re not ready?”
“Ready for what?” James looked over the top of the financial reports Goelet’s solicitor had sent over that afternoon when Maggie breezed into the room tugging on her long gloves.
“We’re attending that holiday fundraiser at the Metropolitan Museum this evening, remember? They’ve acquired two new paintings by Édouard Manet and are showing them to raise monies for the orphanage.”
“Aye, I recall. I’ll simply write them a banknote, shall I?”
“James, dear…”
“Don’t ‘James dear’ me, madam,” he grumbled, though he still rose to his feet as a gentleman should. “You can turn straight about and go back from whence you came. I refuse to attend another event with you. Do you think I would after the way you left me last time?”
“Don’t be put out with me. I only wanted to provide you opportunity to get to know some of our young ladies better.”
“I know all I could possibly wish to know about them,” he grumbled. “Ravenous wolves.”
“Which ones?” she asked with a smirk. “The ones in white or a certain feral creature with impossibly red hair? Don’t think I don’t recall you left me alone in my carriage to join Mrs. Braggstead in hers.”
“Mrs. Braggstead did not abandon me to a pack of predatory chits when I specifically asked her not to. In fact, she saved me from them.”
