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“Mr. Lochery writes philosophical tomes,” said Mrs. Barnes.

Mr. Lochery placed a hand on his chest in what no doubt was meant to be a profession of his modesty. “I merely scribble a few thoughts here and there.”

“He does far more than that. His work is highly regarded in intellectual circles both here and back East,” said Mrs. Barnes.

“Our hostess flatters me far more than I deserve,” he said, his tone positively somber.

“Who are we flattering, Mrs. Barnes?”

Adele turned and found that a man in the usual dark evening clothes of gentlemen had joined them, but there was something about him that felt singular. Perhaps it was the sun-streaked tips of his light brown hair or the way his ice blue eyes sparkled with amusement as he looked around their circle. He was tall, too, towering over the other men in their group, and he moved with the ease of a sportsman.

Their hostess smiled. “Miss Pearce, may I present Mr. Guy Whitley?”

Adele reached out her hand but, rather than shaking it, as she had found Americans customarily did, he lifted it to his lips and dropped a light kiss on the back of it. It was absurdly old-fashioned, but it charmed her nonetheless.

“Miss Pearce, your arrival has been greatly anticipated,” said Mr. Whitley. “I would swear to it that I have heard of little else this past month.”

When he looked up, his grin was so mischievous—brazen even—that she pulled her hand away more abruptly than necessary, a burn creeping up the back of her neck.

“It’s quite fitting, don’t you think?” Mr. Whitley continued. “An English rose coming to our City of Roses?”

“City of Roses?” she asked.

“So named for the abundance of flowers we enjoy at all times of the year,” said Mr. Whitley.

“Surely not all times of year, Mr. Whitley,” said Adele.

“I am afraid I must insist that Whitley is correct, Miss Pearce,” said Mr. Lochery in a manner that made Adele wonder if conceding that Mr. Whitley was right about anything was painful to the man. “Our climate is warm enough that many perennials continue to flower through the winter. Then there are our roses, which, of course, are bushes and not perennials—”

“And are what our Tournament of Roses is named for,” said Mrs. Barnes, neatly cutting off Mr. Lochery’s pedantic line of conversation. “The ladies of the Valley Hunt Club decorate their carriages with flowers for our New Year’s Day parade and festivities.”

“I cannot imagine how warm it must be for flowers to bloom on New Year’s Day,” said Adele.

“All I know is that it’s useful to put promises of endless flowers and fresh citrus on the railway posters that hang back East when everyone is buried under three feet of snow and dreaming of the sunshine,” said Mr. Whitley with a grin.

“I still have not become accustomed to the heat as everyone says I will,” said Papa, leaning on his stick. “At this time of year, the horse chestnuts should be dropping their conkers and the trees losing their leaves.”

The low bong of a gong rang out, and all around her, guests began to arrange themselves. In London, she would know precisely what to expect when it came to going in to supper. As their hostess, Mrs. Barnes would have discreetly let each gentleman know which lady he was meant to escort in, and the guests would file through to the dining room in order of precedence. But how, in this country where every man was a mister, did one know when to go? Would she be seated with a gentleman on either side of her like she would back home? Would the rules of etiquette at table be the same? And would, God forbid, she be stuck speaking with the dour Mr. Lochery all evening?

Just as the rising press of worry was beginning to climb in her chest, Mr. Whitley offered her his arm. “Miss Pearce, I believe I have the privilege of seeing you in to dinner.”

“Thank you, sir,” she said, placing her gloved hand on the crook of the man’s arm. As she did, she spotted the look of deep satisfaction that crossed Mama’s face.

chapter six ADELE

Adele and Mr. Whitley walked from Mrs. Barnes’s drawing room into the massive, wood-paneled dining room in silence. As soon as the table set for twenty came into view, however, he leaned in to her and said, “If I’d discovered Mrs. Barnes had lumped you with Lochery, I was prepared to leap up and create a diversion so you could run away.”

When she slid her gaze to him, she found his lips quirking up in that ever-present smile.

“Why is that, Mr. Whitley?”

“Because no lady as lovely as yourself should be forced to spend more than five minutes in conversation with that man.”

Despite herself, Adele laughed. “He is rather—”

“Solemn? Joyless? Intent on squeezing any social situation completely dry of all the fun that might be had?”

“You are wicked, Mr. Whitley.”