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“I’m simply…” I seek a lie that sounds believable. Not that I owe him an explanation. “Hungry.”
He swirls his glass, sending the ruby-colored liquid swishing, and arches a brow. “You look like you want to strangle me.”
“This isn’t about you,” I say. Just then a woman at the nearest table lets out a giggle, followed by a hushed string of words to her dinner companion that end in something that sounds an awful lot likemarried man. She must be talking about me. About the scandal. Why did Evie think marrying a prince would make it all go away? What if…what if this is just making it worse? And…is that a reporter sitting at the corner table? A female figure sits alone, jotting things down in a notebook. When she lifts her gaze from her page, her eyes lock on me and Albert, her lips quirked into a sly grin. She resumes writing, her pace faster now.
“Hey.” Again, Albert’s voice snags my attention. “Are you all right?”
The sudden concern in his eyes has me bristling. “I’m fine.”
He watches me, brow furrowed, for a few moments longer before donning his carefree grin. Setting his glass on the table, he leans toward me. “Your body language is all wrong.”
“Body language? What does that—”
“If you want to convince everyone that we’re madly in love, then you need to change your posture. Don’t sit straight. Don’t look away from me. Sit closer. Lean in. Angle your body toward me as if it’s magnetically drawn to mine.” He says it with an easy smile, his voice barely above a whisper. To anyone looking our way, he probably appears to be uttering sweet nothings, not discussing my rigid posture.
Heat rises to my cheeks. Not at what he’s suggesting…but because he’s right. I used to know these things. I used todothese things. Naturally. Inherently. No one was off limits for flirtation, and I bandied about my sexuality as easily as breathing. But now…
I’ve lost that part of me. Buried it. For good reason too.
But if I want to wipe my scandal from everyone’s minds, I need to give them something else to talk about. Something positive. Romantic. Like that meaningless kiss he planted on my hand.
Despite knowing what I must do, I can’t bring myself to do it.
Before I realize what’s happening, Albert rises from his chair and rounds the table toward me. “You must forgive me, my dear, for I did not properly push in your chair for you when we first sat down. Please allow me to remedy my shortcomings.” This time, his words are loud enough to be heard by those around us.
I’m not sure what he’s on about, but I stand and allow him to pull out my chair.
“Take a step closer to the table,” he whispers.
I do, pulling my skirts along with me. When he slides my chair toward my legs, I sink back down. Now I’m several inches closer to the table. I expect Albert to return to his seat, but instead, I feel his gloved hand fall upon my shoulder, resting at the base of my cap sleeve. My breath hitches at the unexpected touch. I angle my face toward him and find him smiling down at me.
“That’s better, isn’t it, dearest? Now you won’t feel as if you’re a million miles away from me.” When I don’t reply, he gives my shoulder a soft squeeze and returns to his seat. Once he’s settled back in, he leans forward again. This time, he extends his hand across the table, palm up. “Lean in and place your hand in mine,” he says under his breath.
My heart slams against my ribs at such an absurd request. But his little stunt with the chair has drawn even more attention to us. I can’t look as if I reject his affections.
Donning what I hope looks like a sweet smile, I lean forward and drape my arm halfway across the table until our gloved hands meet.
“You still look like you want to strangle me,” he says, tone soft despite the warning his words carry.
I match his pitch and speak through my forced grin. “If I didn’t before, I certainly do now.”
He laughs, loud enough to carry. “You’re hilarious, Miss Fairfield.” Then, back to a whisper, he says, “You’re still stiff. Loosen your arm. Lean in a little more.”
“You try leaning across a table in a corset and dinner gown.”
He waggles his brows. “If that’s what gets you going, I will, although you’ll find I look better naked.”
A huff of air escapes my mouth. It takes me several seconds to realize it was a laugh. Not only that, but my lips have curled into a genuine grin. But as I recall what he said to amuse me, I swallow my mirth. I have no reason to believe his words were said in anything but jest, yet I can’t risk him thinking such subjects are appropriate between us. Not when he is to be my husband. Until I know for certain that he understands exactly what we are and what we’re not, I can’t have him saying such—
“Miss Fairfield.” The voice comes not from Albert but a man standing beside our table. It’s a familiar tone, one that turns my blood to ice.
Slowly, I turn to face Howard Vance.
Rage replaces the ice in my blood as I look into the face of the man who brought scandal into my life. He’s a middle-aged man with a stout figure, thinning hair, several chins, and beady eyes. “Mr. Vance,” I say curtly. “I wasn’t aware you and Maureen would be here tonight.”
It’s true. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have come. I knew I’d eventually have to face the Vances, but I hoped it wouldn’t be tonight—what was supposed to be the easiest stop on our engagement tour.
“I wasn’t expecting you either, although I was hoping I’d see you again eventually.” His eyes bore into me, paying not an ounce of respect to my royal companion. He angles himself closer to me and lowers his voice. “We never did get to finish those…measurements you were supposed to take. Shall I make an appointment this time?”
