been thoroughly dealt with last night before she fell asleep, she reminded herself, turning back to the women seated near Adelaide. Forcefully turning her full attention on the merits of pink diamonds as the newest fashion statement in accessories, she concentrated on the discussion of jewelers and styles. She was relieved to hear dinner announced just as the Duchesse Montaine asked her opinion on combining yellow and pink diamonds in a parure.
Her relief was short-lived, however, since the Duc de Vec presented himself as her dinner partner, bowing slightly, offering his arm to escort her into the dining room. He seemed, perhaps because of her surprise, to loom extremely large above her, his closeness penetrating, vividly distracting to her sense of aloof-ness. She wanted to say: Why are you doing this? But too many people were near and expressing those sentiments would suggest he was doing something perhaps he wasn't, and would also indicate the extent of her flustered agitation. So she bit back the words when the Duc pleasantly said, "Good evening, Mademoiselle Black. Are you as hungry as I?"
Rising from her chair, she gave him a sharp look, wondering whether he intended the double entendre or she was simply misinterpreting his meaning.
Her response brought a faint smile to the Duc's mouth, for his comment had been perfectly innocuous. How pleasant her agitation, he mused. "I missed lunch," he went on in an amiable tone as though he calmed sexually awakened young ladies every day of the week, which in truth, wasn't too wide of the mark. "I was playing polo."
Taking a small relaxing breath before placing her fingers lightly on his forearm, Daisy decided she was simply overreacting to a man who was probably incapable of double entendre. And his comment about missing lunch was actually off hand. She'd envisioned a subtlety that didn't exist in the man. He played polo. That was essentially what he did. And when he wasn't playing polo, he was hunting or gambling or amusing himself with other men's wives. The quintessential blueblood. Useless and idle through countless generations. Looking up at him as they strolled into the dining room, she said with a keen glance and an edge to her voice, "You don't ever work, do you?"
"Playing polo was hard work this afternoon," he amiably replied, deflecting the asperity in her question. He smiled down at her. "I think I lost five pounds."
"Imagine how hard your polo ponies labored, since they were carrying your weight as well."
They were circling a small table set for ten, looking for their place cards. "I find it charming you have a profession, Mademoiselle Black." Since he didn't take issue with her unusual choice of occupation, he saw no reason she should take exception to his apparent lack of occupation. "And my polo ponies are treated royally."
"By minions who hardly earn enough to support their families." Her voice was the carefully neutral one she'd used last night. He detected a slight smugness, as though she'd scored a point for her debate team or perhaps for her client in court.
He stopped. She thought at first because her critical statement had struck home, but he had instead found their seats. "Are you a socialist, Mademoiselle?" he mildly asked, motioning the footman away so he could seat her himself. "I understand radical politics is the newest intellectual pursuit."
"You don't have to be a socialist," she contradicted, lifting her skirt aside so he could slide her chair forward, "to be concerned with people's livelihoods."
. Her bare shoulders were within inches of his hands, enticing, smooth as silk, and he was inclined to say: If I were to become a socialist would you stay with me tonight? He was a man of great flexibility. Instead, he said, "How true," and offering her her napkin, took his place beside Daisy. To further enlighten the lady and perhaps ingratiate himself as well, he added, "Would it relieve you to know my estates have been cited as models by
Le
Her relief was short-lived, however, since the Duc de Vec presented himself as her dinner partner, bowing slightly, offering his arm to escort her into the dining room. He seemed, perhaps because of her surprise, to loom extremely large above her, his closeness penetrating, vividly distracting to her sense of aloof-ness. She wanted to say: Why are you doing this? But too many people were near and expressing those sentiments would suggest he was doing something perhaps he wasn't, and would also indicate the extent of her flustered agitation. So she bit back the words when the Duc pleasantly said, "Good evening, Mademoiselle Black. Are you as hungry as I?"
Rising from her chair, she gave him a sharp look, wondering whether he intended the double entendre or she was simply misinterpreting his meaning.
Her response brought a faint smile to the Duc's mouth, for his comment had been perfectly innocuous. How pleasant her agitation, he mused. "I missed lunch," he went on in an amiable tone as though he calmed sexually awakened young ladies every day of the week, which in truth, wasn't too wide of the mark. "I was playing polo."
Taking a small relaxing breath before placing her fingers lightly on his forearm, Daisy decided she was simply overreacting to a man who was probably incapable of double entendre. And his comment about missing lunch was actually off hand. She'd envisioned a subtlety that didn't exist in the man. He played polo. That was essentially what he did. And when he wasn't playing polo, he was hunting or gambling or amusing himself with other men's wives. The quintessential blueblood. Useless and idle through countless generations. Looking up at him as they strolled into the dining room, she said with a keen glance and an edge to her voice, "You don't ever work, do you?"
"Playing polo was hard work this afternoon," he amiably replied, deflecting the asperity in her question. He smiled down at her. "I think I lost five pounds."
"Imagine how hard your polo ponies labored, since they were carrying your weight as well."
They were circling a small table set for ten, looking for their place cards. "I find it charming you have a profession, Mademoiselle Black." Since he didn't take issue with her unusual choice of occupation, he saw no reason she should take exception to his apparent lack of occupation. "And my polo ponies are treated royally."
"By minions who hardly earn enough to support their families." Her voice was the carefully neutral one she'd used last night. He detected a slight smugness, as though she'd scored a point for her debate team or perhaps for her client in court.
He stopped. She thought at first because her critical statement had struck home, but he had instead found their seats. "Are you a socialist, Mademoiselle?" he mildly asked, motioning the footman away so he could seat her himself. "I understand radical politics is the newest intellectual pursuit."
"You don't have to be a socialist," she contradicted, lifting her skirt aside so he could slide her chair forward, "to be concerned with people's livelihoods."
. Her bare shoulders were within inches of his hands, enticing, smooth as silk, and he was inclined to say: If I were to become a socialist would you stay with me tonight? He was a man of great flexibility. Instead, he said, "How true," and offering her her napkin, took his place beside Daisy. To further enlighten the lady and perhaps ingratiate himself as well, he added, "Would it relieve you to know my estates have been cited as models by
Le
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