Portrait of a Scotsman (A League of Extraordinary Women #3)(14)
“Mr. Blackstone will hardly try to ravish you in your parents’ drawing room,” Catriona said. “Especially since the first time appears to have been a misunderstanding.”
The thought of being ravished by Mr. Blackstone in any one location made heat rise to the surface of her skin. She was thinking about his kiss far too often as it was.
“I cannot rationally explain it,” she said. “I’m aware I’m being silly, but I feel my stomach flutter and my hands tremble when I think of seeing him again, and I know my nerves should be much calmer if you were there.”
Catriona gave her a long, unreadable look. “I suppose it would be better if one of us were there,” she finally said. “However, as I meant to explain earlier, I have an appointment at the Royal Society with my father tomorrow. Have you considered asking Annabelle?”
“She is preparing to leave for France for the summer. Besides, Mama would never allow me to invite a duchess to the event—it’s a luncheon, quite informal.”
“Hmm.” Catriona made to bite her thumbnail before sheepishly lowering her hand again. “Burlington House is perhaps half a mile from your parents’ residence—”
“It is,” Hattie said quickly.
“—so it should be possible for me to be there on time for my appointment if I left promptly after the concert.”
“Yes!”
“For the luncheon, I’m afraid you are on your own.”
He had not shown before or during the concert. She had sat tense and perspiring through forty dramatic minutes of Chopin and Brahms, and Mr. Blackstone was glaringly absent.
“I don’t understand,” she said to Catriona as they followed the throng of guests down the corridor toward the lunchroom. “Why would he snub my mother on the day of the event after first accepting the invitation?”
“Perhaps he has fallen ill,” Catriona murmured.
“He looked in perfectly robust health to me.”
“Why not ask your mother? She would know any excuse he gave.”
“And risk looking interested in the subject?”
She was certainly glad he hadn’t come. Her mother had selected the linden-green gown for her to wear, and while for once the color suited, the style was dreadful: the sleeves were too wide on top, the hem was heavy with not one but two rows of pleats, and there was a startling excess of lace foaming at the front of her bodice—each feature on its own, very well; their combination: an atrocity. And of course, it was too tight. Sometimes, she wondered whether her mother was simply oblivious or consciously intending for her to look like a frump. Even Catriona was more elegant in plain navy-blue velvet, and Catriona lacked all fashion sense.
A light melody of string instruments filtered into the room from the side chamber, and the guests had formed groups and were selecting beverages from the trays carried by quietly circling waiters. Since the luncheon was informal, no escorts for the women were required. Her mother, flanked by Aunty, was making conversation with young Mrs. Astorp and Mrs. Hewitt-Cook, an American. Right next to the easel that hosted Hattie’s very large, very unimpressive still life of fruit and vegetables in a bowl.
She cringed and took Catriona’s hand. “Have you time for a refreshment? A glass of cider or champagne? And let’s look at the food.”
Catriona’s gaze went across the room to the pendulum clock between the sideboards that presently served as tables for the buffet. “One glass of cider,” she said.
Hattie’s cheeks slowly cooled as she sipped the cold, tart drink from the long-stemmed glass. The savory scent wafting from the nearest sideboard should have made her stomach growl, and the food did look tempting: the steaming silver tureens and plates with cold cuts of meat and golden-brown pies were set handsomely between hothouse flower arrangements. Mina must have had a hand in the décor. Even more intriguing were the tiered platters on the other table: filled with small pots containing boiled fruit, buttery pastries, and glazed chocolates …
She froze. A dark figure had entered her peripheral vision.
A thrill of panic ran down her back. It was him, standing in the wing doors. Her skin prickled from top to toe as his presence rippled like a disturbance through the ether.
“I think he’s here,” she whispered without moving her lips. “Do not look.”
Catriona’s gaze slid sideways as she raised her glass to feign a sip. “Oh my.”
They angled their backs to the main door as one and pretended to study the buffet.
Hattie wasn’t seeing a thing. “Do you see? Do you see why I first thought he was a pirate?”
“I don’t, to be truthful,” Catriona murmured after a small pause.
“You don’t?”
“He’s hardly a gibface, Hattie.”
“He isn’t,” she conceded. “But he is no gentleman.”
“You said he’s a Scotsman. Perhaps from the Highlands? He would look braw in a kilt.”
Hattie blinked. Would he? And why was Catriona picturing men in kilts?
“Why do you think he’s a Highlander?”
Catriona’s smile was a little crooked. “They have a certain look about them when they enter a room full of Englishmen. A sharp glance in their eyes, like a broadsword at the ready to be drawn—You beat us at Culloden, it says, but our spirit remains unbroken.”