He nodded knowingly. “Though he refuses to acknowledge the affair,” the man began, “he and my mother had quite the tryst. And I”—he motioned with his hands— “am the product of their love.”
Esme nearly spit her soup back into the bowl. She caught herself and covered a cough behind her napkin. “Is that so? How very interesting.”
And what a horrific conversation opener. And to think, people at her previous society dinner parties considered her ill-mannered. She tried to catch Max’s eye again, but he was otherwise engaged in conversing with the older woman next to him. Though Esme wondered from his sly smile if he hadn’t intentionally bookended her with these two fools.
“Croquet, did you say?” the fat man asked of the pale man. “I dare boast I am quite accomplished at that myself.”
“Indeed . . . ,” the pale man answered.
But Esme was no longer listening. Instead she was caught up in watching her aunt. Thea was deep in conversation with Albert. It was as if those two were utterly isolated from the rest of the dinner party, so affixed were they on each other. A lump settled in Esme’s throat, and she found it difficult to continue eating.
Perhaps it meant nothing, but to Esme, Fielding could have made no grander gesture. He might always argue with her, insist he was no hero, but Esme knew better. She knew there was no man more honorable, more noble, than Fielding Grey.
Conversation abounded across the table of sixteen. She continued to answer any question aimed directly at her, but for the most part, she concentrated on her food. She was most eager for the evening to end. She looked down at her dress and fingered the small flower nestled between her breasts. Her vanity longed for Fielding to walk in and see her in the pretty blue dress. But as she bit into her baked cherry pudding, he still had not arrived.
Three courses and four hours after the dinner began, she and Thea climbed the stairs to their bedchambers.
“That was a delightful evening,” Thea said, her voice lyrical. “So thoughtful of the marquess to plan such an event in your honor.”
“I do believe it was more in your honor,” Esme said. “How did the marquess know about my past with Albert?” Thea asked.
“Fielding must have told him. I mentioned it to him once before.” And he had remembered. She squeezed Thea’s hand. “Are you going to see him again?”
“He’s taking me to a poetry reading tomorrow night,” Thea said dreamily.
Esme almost warned her that it would better to stay here, where it was safe. But Albert Moore was an acclaimed adventurer; he was older, to be certain, but still fit and conditioned. He would be able to protect Thea. Esme relaxed a little.
“I’m glad you found each other again,” Esme said. “You deserve happiness.”
“I was already happy, Esme. This is a nice addition, though.” They made it to Thea’s room. “Are you going to stand in the hall all evening, or come in?” Thea asked.
Esme nodded and stepped into the room. “I apologize.
I’m a little distracted.”
“Indeed? I hadn’t noticed at all,” Thea teased.
“I apologize. I wasn’t a complete dolt during dinner, was I?”
“Even if you had been, I wouldn’t worry overly much.” She paused, thoughtful, then continued. “That was an interesting collection of men the marquess invited.”
“A motley crowd, indeed.” Esme found herself at the window, staring down at the barely lit walkway leading to the townhome. No sign of Fielding. She had to admit she was a little nervous about the fact that he hadn’t yet returned.
“I feel as if I’m on holiday,” Thea said. “Living in an expensive hotel with anything I want at my fingertips. I could get used to a life like this.” She smiled mischievously.
“Perhaps you can have a similar one with Albert.”
“I don’t want to get ahead of myself.” Thea slipped out of her shoes. “You’ve made a good choice, Esme. I think he is rather dashing, all things considered,” Thea said.
Esme turned from the window, feigning ignorance. “The marquess? He’s handsome, I suppose, but I would never be so presumptuous as to—”
“No, you goose. Mr. Grey. Unless I am mistaken and you do not fancy him?”
“Yes, Mr. Grey is rather dashing,” Esme said.
“Then why the hesitation? You can’t convince me you are not interested in him. Even tonight, with plenty of men paying you all sorts of attention, all you could do was watch the door.” She dropped her shoes in a corner. “Granted, most of those men were nothing more than silly fops.” She paused in front of Esme. “Don’t end up an old maid like me.” Her tone turned somber. “If you want him, you should have him.” She walked to her dressing table.
Plain and simple logic. It made sense to her too, Esme realized. But she also acknowledged that life wasn’t quite so simple. Wanting Fielding did not mean she would have him. One must be wanted in return. Her mind flashed to his hands on her skin, his mouth on her body, and she smiled from the memory. Perhaps he did actually want her as well. But for how long?
