with a slow smile, "And well, if you'll pardon my saying so, you don't fit my mental picture of what a suffragist should look like."
She bristled at that remark just as she'd known she would. "Just what do you imagine a suffragist should look like?"
He glanced toward her secretary, the one with the mannish manner and hawkish gaze, standing at the opposite end of the stage. "Rather I imagine what a suffragist is not. You're altogether too young and too pretty to be spending your evenings in stuffy lecture halls."
"My age and looks are of no consequence." But the blush limning those lovely high cheekbones told him the compliment struck home.
"In point, Miss Rivers, your image is the very thing that brings me here tonight." Feeling the urgency of dwindling time--he caught someone, the secretary, no doubt--hinting they would shortly be locking the doors--he said, "Is there somewhere we can speak in private?"
Nibbling her bottom lip, she hesitated. "Very well, there is a greenroom backstage."
She turned and started off toward the partitioned curtain, leaving him to follow. Backstage, she opened the door to what served as a waiting room for visiting speakers and entertainers, a tray of tea biscuits and a pitcher of water set out on the marble-topped sideboard.
Leaving the door ajar--did she really imagine he meant to pounce upon her--she asked, "What is it you would say to me?"
Amused at her skittishness, he said, "As I may have mentioned the other day, a great deal of my work is portraiture." He reached inside his jacket pocket for the forged letter Dandridge had supplied. "As it happens, my most recent commission is to photograph you."
Her eyes widened, and she gave a fierce shake of her head, the motion knocking the spectacles halfway down her nose. Pushing them back, she said, "That cannot be."
Rather than argue, he handed her the counterfeit letter of introduction, hoping the forger had possessed an able hand. She broke the seal, unfolded the paper, and began to read, spectacles slipping down her nose once more only this time she didn't seem to notice. Even with head bowed, the shock coursing through her was a palpable thing. He could read it on her face, feel it in the sudden stiffening of her stance.
She refolded the letter, very slowly, very carefully, and looked up. A less confident man would have taken her stricken look as a grave injury to his pride. "I cannot credit it," she said at length, looking so forlorn that suddenly, inexplicably, he wanted to reach out and hold her. "She said nothing of this before she left, not a word. This . . . command comes as so contrary to her character, I cannot fathom it."
Thinking quickly, Hadrian said, "If a series of photographs is what is needed to tip the scales of public opinion in your favor, then surely sitting for me is not so great a sacrifice given all the many sacrifices you must have made up until now?" The gentleness in his voice caught him by surprise. What the devil did he care for her so-called sacrifices?
"This letter is dated more than a week ago and yet you made no mention of it the other day when we met." Her keen-eyed gaze settled on his and though he'd been over warm all evening, Hadrian was only now conscious of the sweat soaking his collar.
"Yes, well, if you will recall, there was the small matter of the elements to deal with, in our case the wind, and errant papers to collect. By the time I knew who you were, that dragon of an assistant was ferrying you away as though fearful I meant to debauch you in the public park." He smiled at her then, the same reassuring smile he used to comfort crying children and other portrait subjects edgy at having their picture made.
She smiled back though it occurred to him that her eyes looked wistful, even a trifle sad. "Harriet is my secretary and as dedicated to our Cause as any of us. If she seems a bit protective at times it is only because the press has not always been kind."
Were we in different
She bristled at that remark just as she'd known she would. "Just what do you imagine a suffragist should look like?"
He glanced toward her secretary, the one with the mannish manner and hawkish gaze, standing at the opposite end of the stage. "Rather I imagine what a suffragist is not. You're altogether too young and too pretty to be spending your evenings in stuffy lecture halls."
"My age and looks are of no consequence." But the blush limning those lovely high cheekbones told him the compliment struck home.
"In point, Miss Rivers, your image is the very thing that brings me here tonight." Feeling the urgency of dwindling time--he caught someone, the secretary, no doubt--hinting they would shortly be locking the doors--he said, "Is there somewhere we can speak in private?"
Nibbling her bottom lip, she hesitated. "Very well, there is a greenroom backstage."
She turned and started off toward the partitioned curtain, leaving him to follow. Backstage, she opened the door to what served as a waiting room for visiting speakers and entertainers, a tray of tea biscuits and a pitcher of water set out on the marble-topped sideboard.
Leaving the door ajar--did she really imagine he meant to pounce upon her--she asked, "What is it you would say to me?"
Amused at her skittishness, he said, "As I may have mentioned the other day, a great deal of my work is portraiture." He reached inside his jacket pocket for the forged letter Dandridge had supplied. "As it happens, my most recent commission is to photograph you."
Her eyes widened, and she gave a fierce shake of her head, the motion knocking the spectacles halfway down her nose. Pushing them back, she said, "That cannot be."
Rather than argue, he handed her the counterfeit letter of introduction, hoping the forger had possessed an able hand. She broke the seal, unfolded the paper, and began to read, spectacles slipping down her nose once more only this time she didn't seem to notice. Even with head bowed, the shock coursing through her was a palpable thing. He could read it on her face, feel it in the sudden stiffening of her stance.
She refolded the letter, very slowly, very carefully, and looked up. A less confident man would have taken her stricken look as a grave injury to his pride. "I cannot credit it," she said at length, looking so forlorn that suddenly, inexplicably, he wanted to reach out and hold her. "She said nothing of this before she left, not a word. This . . . command comes as so contrary to her character, I cannot fathom it."
Thinking quickly, Hadrian said, "If a series of photographs is what is needed to tip the scales of public opinion in your favor, then surely sitting for me is not so great a sacrifice given all the many sacrifices you must have made up until now?" The gentleness in his voice caught him by surprise. What the devil did he care for her so-called sacrifices?
"This letter is dated more than a week ago and yet you made no mention of it the other day when we met." Her keen-eyed gaze settled on his and though he'd been over warm all evening, Hadrian was only now conscious of the sweat soaking his collar.
"Yes, well, if you will recall, there was the small matter of the elements to deal with, in our case the wind, and errant papers to collect. By the time I knew who you were, that dragon of an assistant was ferrying you away as though fearful I meant to debauch you in the public park." He smiled at her then, the same reassuring smile he used to comfort crying children and other portrait subjects edgy at having their picture made.
She smiled back though it occurred to him that her eyes looked wistful, even a trifle sad. "Harriet is my secretary and as dedicated to our Cause as any of us. If she seems a bit protective at times it is only because the press has not always been kind."
Were we in different
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