“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.”
Hattie’s mouth fell open. “Is that what you think when you enter a room full of Englishmen?”
“Oh, worry not,” Catriona said. “My mother was from Sussex. And I spent more time in Oxford than in Applecross.” She glanced back over her shoulder. “You can look now—he is engaged in conversation with your mother.”
Her fingers tightened around the stem of her glass. “Oh golly.”
“It means nothing—he must address the hostess.”
She saw it, the furtive glance Catriona cast at the clock. “No—please stay.”
“I’m sorry,” Catriona said reluctantly. “I truly am, but I must be on my way.” She put her empty glass onto a tray floating past. “Could you not accompany me to the door, then go and hide in your room?”
“Yes,” Hattie murmured, feeling ill. “Excellent plan.”
She avoided looking at him while she approached. She avoided looking at him while Catriona said her good-byes to the hostess. Through her light-headed state, she still heard her mother instruct a footman to escort Catriona to the door. A last, helpless exchange of glances with her friend, and the inevitable was upon her.
“Harriet, I would like you to meet Mr. Blackstone,” her mother said. “Mr. Blackstone is a man of business here in London. Mr. Blackstone, allow me to present Miss Harriet Greenfield, our second-eldest daughter.”
His cool gray gaze locked with hers and her heart began to race. He was as striking as she remembered him: pale, dark brows, broad cheekbones. His lips were well drawn but not full. How had his mouth felt so soft? A mistake to even think of it. His eyes brightened knowingly, and the memory of their kiss flared between them like embers leaping back to life, the heat so palpable, everyone in the circle would have to feel the warmth, too.
She tilted her flaming face. “Sir.”
“Miss Greenfield.” His voice was deeper than she recalled. She cast him a nervous glance from beneath her lashes. He was properly attired today in a navy jacket, oxblood cravat, gray waistcoat, and fawn-colored trousers, and he had rigorously slicked back his hair. He still could not suggest good breeding. He had an untamable quality to him that radiated from his very core, and clothing would not conceal it. Catriona was right; a kilt and a broadsword would suit him better, enhancing rather than poorly disguising him ….
“Miss Greenfield,” Mrs. Astorp said, making her snap to attention. “Mrs. Greenfield mentioned you are still up at Oxford?” Genuine curiosity shone in Mrs. Astorp’s hazel eyes. The young woman had been married to an industrialist twice her age for a few years now, though she was scarcely older than Hattie. Acquiring a university degree had to strike her as an alien form of life.
“I am,” Hattie said. “I’m at Lady Margaret Hall. Trinity term finished last week.”
“How neat,” said Mrs. Hewitt-Cook, the American. “How many female students are enrolled at present?” Mrs. Hewitt-Cook was a handsome brunette and older, closer to Hattie’s mother’s age. Her burgundy ensemble was very fashionable, and if it was a little tight, it was probably a deliberate choice. Hattie fixed her gaze on the oval brooch at the woman’s throat to avoid Mr. Blackstone. “There are five-and-twenty women enrolled between Somerville Hall and Lady Margaret Hall,” she said.