Page 42 of The Last Warrior

“Thank you.” Irena smiled at Burke.

Burke nodded, then turned and retraced his steps, presumably to find more champagne.

Irena looked at Suzette over her glass. “You are wearing a beautiful gown. White is a good color on you. The material is very soft. Is it silk?”

“Yes.”

“And the cut is quite flattering, as well, the neckline not too low, not too high.”

“Thank you.”

Still eyeing her granddaughter over the glass of champagne, Irena commented, “Oh, and by the way, I saw him kiss you.”

“Did you?” asked Suzette, not bothering to ask who he was. “Let us hope no one else did.”

“Suzie, I fear it could not have been missed.”

It was true. “Do you know if he is in trouble?”

“I must admit I have no idea.”

“But why did he do it?”

Irena smiled at her as though she knew exactly what was the reason, but she wasn’t going to tell Suzette about it. “Perhaps you could spend some time with him. You must be aware it is well over a few weeks since you first wed. Perhaps, if you were more attentive to him, he might not look upon a public demonstration as a way to become closer to you.”

“We are not supposed to become closer.”

“Need I remind you that you are wed.”

“Irena, do stop this. You know the particulars of it.”

Irena shrugged. “He is a man, and you went into this arrangement willingly.”

“Has he talked to you about it, then?”

“No, he has not. But I think he would like to get to know you better.”

Suzette didn’t respond.

Completely unnecessarily, Irena stated, “He is your husband, after all.”

“No, he is not,” Suzette denied. “Well, maybe,” she said more honestly. “But not really. I bear his name and only his name.”

“And so it is your plan to take his name and ignore the man?”

Annoyed, yet keeping a smile affixed to her countenance, Suzette turned on her grandmother. “What do you expect from me, Irena? The man knew what he was doing, as well as I. I did not lie to him about what I needed or what our relationship would be after the deed was done. He agreed.”

Irena raised a single eyebrow, but otherwise remained silent.

Suzette abruptly changed the subject. “When do you perform?”

“As soon as dinner is finished.”

“What are you singing?”

“The Barcarolle, ‘Belle Nuit,’ ‘Oh Lovely Night’ from The Tales of Hoffmann, by Jacques Offenbach.”

Suzette nodded. “Good choice.”