“Since you’re not going to say what the money’s for, at least tell me about the ball I missed.”
“Well, I met a most interesting woman, in the ladies’ retiring lounge of all places. Her name is Caledonia Rivers. She’s a famous suffragist, and she’s about the same age as I. I have an inkling we’re going to be very great friends.”
The brief interlude in the ladies’ room had brought home just how much Kate had missed having friends. Most of her school chums had gone their own ways years before. The few with whom she’d kept in touch were married with families of their own. She didn’t accept many social invitations because to do so would have obligated her to return the hospitality in kind. She’d only attended that evening’s ball because her volunteer work for the charity school afforded her free tickets.
Unfortunately their cozy chat had been cut short by the appearance of Mr. St. Claire, who had come in search of Callie. The warm, urgent looks passing between the pair stood as Kate’s cue to make her excuses and leave. She’d headed off to the supper room, half-hoping she might encounter her waltzing partner, but there was no sign of the sexy Scot. She told herself she should feel relieved. No doubt he’d found some other poor woman to trod upon and hold far too close. Instead she’d felt a keen sense of disappointment—followed by a surge of irrational jealousy. She’d spent the remainder of the evening dodging Dutton and company and standing by the potted palm pushing canapés about her plate.
Bea blew out a bored breath. She dismissed the promise of female friendship with a flick of her long-fingered hand. “I meant the men, Kat. Did you meet anyone … interesting?”
Kate hesitated.
Interesting
seemed such a paltry word to describe him.
Intriguing, mesmerizing,
and
exasperating
even, but surely not
interesting.
Hours later, she still found herself marveling over how she could be so powerfully attracted to a man who in no way matched what she thought of as her “type.” He wasn’t even good-looking, at least not in the traditional sense. Before now, Kate had fancied tall men with lean builds, similar to Lord Dutton’s. Mr. O’Rourke was several inches shorter than her former fiancé, and yet he’d somehow managed the trick of seeming the tallest man in the room. Beyond that, the arm she’d laid her hand atop had been granite-hard, the bulging bicep threatening to rent the sleeve of his obviously expertly tailored evening jacket. The coat had fit his broad shoulders, barrel chest, and trim torso like a glove.
But more so than his rough-hewn looks, it was his manner that attracted her. Never before had a man dared talk to her in so frank and … earthy a fashion. And the way he’d swooped in like a great beast of prey to claim her for their waltz had excited her mightily. The mere recollection excited her still.
Had she been a young miss of Bea’s age, rather than an older, unmarried sister considered to be on the shelf, their dancing so intimately without first being introduced would have been scandalous. But other than a few raised eyebrows and a disapproving look or two from the matrons lining the wall, they’d been left alone. Invisibility was one of the dubious benefits of a woman growing older, she supposed. In a few years she would be thirty, and then she would no longer have to worry about what people thought at all. With Bea’s future settled, Kate would be free to do precisely as she pleased. Until now, her future freedom had taken the form of chocolate eating and novel reading, but it occurred to her to wonder if she might not supplement those relatively tame carnal delights with an indulgence of a wilder, more primal sort.
Might she also find herself free to take a lover?
Before tonight, such a scandalous thought had never so much as crossed her mind. Now that it had, her mind quickly mapped out a mental picture of her prospective partner in illicit pleasure.
“Well, I met a most interesting woman, in the ladies’ retiring lounge of all places. Her name is Caledonia Rivers. She’s a famous suffragist, and she’s about the same age as I. I have an inkling we’re going to be very great friends.”
The brief interlude in the ladies’ room had brought home just how much Kate had missed having friends. Most of her school chums had gone their own ways years before. The few with whom she’d kept in touch were married with families of their own. She didn’t accept many social invitations because to do so would have obligated her to return the hospitality in kind. She’d only attended that evening’s ball because her volunteer work for the charity school afforded her free tickets.
Unfortunately their cozy chat had been cut short by the appearance of Mr. St. Claire, who had come in search of Callie. The warm, urgent looks passing between the pair stood as Kate’s cue to make her excuses and leave. She’d headed off to the supper room, half-hoping she might encounter her waltzing partner, but there was no sign of the sexy Scot. She told herself she should feel relieved. No doubt he’d found some other poor woman to trod upon and hold far too close. Instead she’d felt a keen sense of disappointment—followed by a surge of irrational jealousy. She’d spent the remainder of the evening dodging Dutton and company and standing by the potted palm pushing canapés about her plate.
Bea blew out a bored breath. She dismissed the promise of female friendship with a flick of her long-fingered hand. “I meant the men, Kat. Did you meet anyone … interesting?”
Kate hesitated.
Interesting
seemed such a paltry word to describe him.
Intriguing, mesmerizing,
and
exasperating
even, but surely not
interesting.
Hours later, she still found herself marveling over how she could be so powerfully attracted to a man who in no way matched what she thought of as her “type.” He wasn’t even good-looking, at least not in the traditional sense. Before now, Kate had fancied tall men with lean builds, similar to Lord Dutton’s. Mr. O’Rourke was several inches shorter than her former fiancé, and yet he’d somehow managed the trick of seeming the tallest man in the room. Beyond that, the arm she’d laid her hand atop had been granite-hard, the bulging bicep threatening to rent the sleeve of his obviously expertly tailored evening jacket. The coat had fit his broad shoulders, barrel chest, and trim torso like a glove.
But more so than his rough-hewn looks, it was his manner that attracted her. Never before had a man dared talk to her in so frank and … earthy a fashion. And the way he’d swooped in like a great beast of prey to claim her for their waltz had excited her mightily. The mere recollection excited her still.
Had she been a young miss of Bea’s age, rather than an older, unmarried sister considered to be on the shelf, their dancing so intimately without first being introduced would have been scandalous. But other than a few raised eyebrows and a disapproving look or two from the matrons lining the wall, they’d been left alone. Invisibility was one of the dubious benefits of a woman growing older, she supposed. In a few years she would be thirty, and then she would no longer have to worry about what people thought at all. With Bea’s future settled, Kate would be free to do precisely as she pleased. Until now, her future freedom had taken the form of chocolate eating and novel reading, but it occurred to her to wonder if she might not supplement those relatively tame carnal delights with an indulgence of a wilder, more primal sort.
Might she also find herself free to take a lover?
Before tonight, such a scandalous thought had never so much as crossed her mind. Now that it had, her mind quickly mapped out a mental picture of her prospective partner in illicit pleasure.
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