“Mr. Ryan,” Mrs. Everett whispered to me. “And his wife.”
The woman beside him, whose brown hair had started to gray, held out her hand to Graham before waving over—
Miss Ryan.
Introductions were made, and thankfully excuses offered for Mr. Lennox, who’d taken off on some errand out of town. Good riddance.
I watched Graham, how he bowed to the Ryans, smiling broadly and sincerely. But, despite their clear familiarity, my host never left my side. He took his responsibility seriously. Honorable in every way. I felt immense pride toward Graham and for all he’d done for his family. He could have abandoned them too. He could have declared the burden too heavy.
Look at them now.
“Miss Lane!” a man called from behind us. Mr. Cross. My heart stuttered a beat—from nerves or anticipation? I nodded my appreciation to the Ryans before I turned.
“Good evening, Mr. Cross,” I said, and heavens, the man had made an effort. He smelled musky and sweet, his wavy hair sleek and shiny, and he wore an olive coat that complemented the fair color of his skin.
His brows lifted in appreciation as his eyes traveled every inch of me. “You are a vision.”
I swallowed. This was what I’d wanted, wasn’t it? A man who needed nothing from my father. Who made my heart stir with the possibility of more. Had I any reason to deny Mr. Cross my sincere attention? At present, no one else had sent me flowers or declared their intentions or affections.
His words were kind, his attention so flattering. Yet ...
I glanced to Graham, who stood alone with Miss Ryan.Her small hand reached out, touching his forearm, and I felt fire fume in my lungs. Consuming me with ... anger? Well, that would be silly. Whatever it was, though, it felt right. Deserved. I did not like her, not at all.
“I am so pleased you could come,” Mr. Cross said, drawing my attention back to him.
“As am I. Thank you for the beautiful bouquet you sent. The roses are lovely.”
“I am glad.” He smiled, pleased. There was quiet between us for a beat. A few flickering gazes. Strange, not knowing what to say.
“What brings you to Brighton?” I asked, then flinched. Would he perceive the question as too intimate?
“Visiting my younger brother, actually,” he answered quickly. Like he aimed to please me. But that wasn’t necessarily a terrible thing. Of course a man would want to please the lady he wished to spend time with. I should let him try. “He and his wife recently welcomed their first son, and I did not want to miss an opportunity to see him. It’s been years.”
“Oh?” I heard the trill of Miss Ryan’s laughter, and my muscles seized. I fought the desire to move far away. And to take Graham with me.
“He’s a vicar—well respected. We are quite proud. And the baby is so still and quiet, often sleeping.”
“As newborns are,” I said, and he grinned.Focus on him, Anna. Full attention.“Congratulations,” I added. I tried to think of something more to say, another question perhaps, or a compliment. But some corner of my mind warred for control of my eyes, flicking them every so often toward Graham.
What did I care if he relished in Miss Ryan’s attentions? She was wealthy, obviously, and more than interested inhim. He’d do well with a wife like her, already established in Society, pleasant ...scratch that last.
“Are you hungry?” Mr. Cross smiled at me, offering his arm. “There are refreshments in the room across the way.”
I nodded, determined to be amiable, going through potential topics of discussion in my mind. The Season, sea-bathing, his hobbies, if he liked goat cheese ...
Indeed, as we walked together to the refreshment table, and as he poured me a glass of lemonade, I learned that Mr. Cross was not a Shakespearean but a hunting man. Hunting foxes and elk, to be specific, and his one great pride was his hunting dogs, the four of which he missed greatly when away.
I listened intently, reprimanding my gaze when it wandered down the line to Graham, who kept Miss Ryan in raptures with stories told with bright eyes and moving hands.
Mr. Cross filled a plate with cheese and bread, fruit, and a little cheesecake, all the while asking after my time in Brighton, politely nodding as I described my time with the Everetts. In between bites, I told him about my love for the sea, my hopes for traveling more in the future. He spoke of his own adventures and his family, but all too soon, conversation slowed. No questions about my hobbies or reading. No probing for personal details. And, unfortunately, I remembered why I’d forgotten our brief time together.
No, this would not do. I’d rather sit alone at dinner than have to work so hard for conversation. Besides, I did not care much for hunting and hounds. As handsome as the man was, the interest I felt stalled there, and I wanted more. I wanted easy. Perhaps finding a husband would take more effort on my part, but if I’d learned one thing from my pursuits, it should absolutely feel easy.
I could tell him about my favorite flowers or recite my favorite lines fromRomeo and Juliet. I could ask if he enjoyed playing cards or the alphabet game.
Mr. Cross straightened, hands on his thighs, then with a tilt of his head and a small smile, he said, “Miss Lane, might I have the cotillion?”
“I’d like that,” I said, and I let him lead me toward the music.
