“Delightful,” she declared. “Quite delightful.”
They were then led through the inevitable procession of greetings. Frances offered her hand, smiled, answered questions, received compliments, and returned them with enough grace to satisfy propriety and enough edge to amuse herself. Andrew remained at her side.
When Lady Morton asked whether Frances had found Sinclair House much altered by her arrival, Andrew answered before Frances could.
“Entirely,” he said. “And much improved.”
Lady Morton gave a pleased little gasp. By the time they had crossed the length of the drawing room, Frances’ cheeks ached from smiling.
Andrew must have noticed, because he leaned closer and said quietly, “Come.”
“Where?”
“To rescue you from felicitations.”
Before she could reply, he guided her toward a small alcove near a tall window, half-screened by a potted palm and a table arranged with lemonade, ratafia, and tiny iced cakes that looked far too delicate to satisfy anyone.
For the first time since entering the house, Frances could breathe.
She accepted the glass he offered. “Thank you.”
“For the lemonade?”
“For the moment of respite.”
His gaze moved past her shoulder. “It is not much of one.”
Frances followed his glance. Several pairs of eyes turned away too quickly.
“No,” she admitted. “They are still staring.”
“Let them stare.”
She looked back at him.
Andrew lifted his glass with infuriating ease. “It is in human nature to stare at beauty.”
For a moment, Frances did not understand him. Then, she did. Heat rose at once beneath her skin, swift and mortifying. She looked down at her lemonade as if it had suddenly become fascinating.
“That was very smoothly done.”
“Was it?”
“Do not pretend innocence,” she smiled. “It does not suit you.”
“I have never made any claim to innocence.”
“No. I imagine it would be rejected at once.”
His mouth curved. “By you?”
“Certainly by me. I am a severe judge of character.”
“I had noticed.”
She took a sip of lemonade to steady herself and found it too sweet. She lifted her gaze and looked at Andrew. He was dressed in dark blue, the cut severe enough to make every line of him seem deliberate. His fair hair caught the light from the window. His expression held the sort of controlled amusement that made him appear untouchable, though Frances knew better now.
“You do not look that bad yourself,” she murmured.
