warmth after the damp cold of the promenade deck. She untied her veil—the air was becoming too still inside. He led her to a table at the corner, between two potted fronds.
“You are very quiet,” he observed.
“I’m a little distracted.”
“A terrible thing to say to your lover, who is letting nothing distract him from you.”
Her heart thumped at the word
lover
. “What would you have done had I bought a ticket on a different steamer?”
“I would have had a much less enjoyable crossing.”
“There are many other ladies aboard.”
“They don’t interest me as you do.”
“How can you say that? You know nothing about them.”
He turned and looked around the room. “Other than you, there are eleven women in this lounge, two are old enough to be my grandmother, three more old enough to be my mother, and one is barely fifteen, if that. Of the other five, one is recently engaged—she keeps looking at her ring while she writes her letter. The one in the pink frock is thinking only of chocolate—I can see her trying to sneak a piece from the secret stash in her pocket. The one in the redingote is rude to waiters—she sat not too far from me at dinner last night. The one in yellow, Redingote’s sister, dissects every lady’s dress down to the last detail—see, she is whispering to Redingote now, probably about
your
dress. And the woman in brown is a lady’s companion who does not want to be a lady’s companion anymore. But she is very practical. She does not take note of me because I have you by my side; she is looking for a lonely, unattached gentleman who might overlook her humble origins and make her his wife.”
He turned back toward her. “See, they don’t interest me as you do.”
The veil obscured the color of his eyes, but there was no mistaking the pleasure in his countenance as he looked upon her. Her pulse turned erratic—more erratic, that was. She had yet to know a steady heartbeat in his presence.
Belatedly it occurred to her that he was a great deal more observant than she’d given him credit for. And with that realization came a frisson of alarm. “What do you know about me?”
“You probably married quite young. Your husband exerted tremendous influence over you—because you loved him very much, because he was a good few years older than you, possibly both. Even to this day you still haven’t quite escaped the shadow he cast. But you do not think of your solitude as a sign that you remain bound to him. If anything, you have been glad to be alone—and safe.”
She felt the blood drain from her face. He ought not to know this much about her. “I probably should have remained alone. I’m not sure I am safe with you.”
“Tell me what you think of the men in this room.”
She glanced at him, not sure what he wanted.
“Humor me,” he said.
Other than him, there were only three other men. “One of them is glancing toward the girl who loves chocolate with exasperation. He is most likely her brother. Perhapstheir mother is suffering from seasickness and he is forced to play chaperone. The young man who is actually talking to our chocolate lover reminds me a little of my brother: He has that aura of dutifulness to him—someone who takes his responsibilities seriously. I’d say Our Girl of the Hidden Chocolate and her brother have been ordered here by their mother to make a good impression on Responsible Young Man. Except Responsible Young Man is distracted. He keeps looking toward one of the women old enough to be your mother—and who might in fact
be his
mother.
“That woman is speaking to a man in his thirties. And I can see why Responsible Young Man might be wary. He taps his foot incessantly and blinks too much. His smiles don’t quite reach his eyes. And his accent shifts: He is trying to pass himself off as an English gentleman, but I can hear traces of American vowels, especially in
“You are very quiet,” he observed.
“I’m a little distracted.”
“A terrible thing to say to your lover, who is letting nothing distract him from you.”
Her heart thumped at the word
lover
. “What would you have done had I bought a ticket on a different steamer?”
“I would have had a much less enjoyable crossing.”
“There are many other ladies aboard.”
“They don’t interest me as you do.”
“How can you say that? You know nothing about them.”
He turned and looked around the room. “Other than you, there are eleven women in this lounge, two are old enough to be my grandmother, three more old enough to be my mother, and one is barely fifteen, if that. Of the other five, one is recently engaged—she keeps looking at her ring while she writes her letter. The one in the pink frock is thinking only of chocolate—I can see her trying to sneak a piece from the secret stash in her pocket. The one in the redingote is rude to waiters—she sat not too far from me at dinner last night. The one in yellow, Redingote’s sister, dissects every lady’s dress down to the last detail—see, she is whispering to Redingote now, probably about
your
dress. And the woman in brown is a lady’s companion who does not want to be a lady’s companion anymore. But she is very practical. She does not take note of me because I have you by my side; she is looking for a lonely, unattached gentleman who might overlook her humble origins and make her his wife.”
He turned back toward her. “See, they don’t interest me as you do.”
The veil obscured the color of his eyes, but there was no mistaking the pleasure in his countenance as he looked upon her. Her pulse turned erratic—more erratic, that was. She had yet to know a steady heartbeat in his presence.
Belatedly it occurred to her that he was a great deal more observant than she’d given him credit for. And with that realization came a frisson of alarm. “What do you know about me?”
“You probably married quite young. Your husband exerted tremendous influence over you—because you loved him very much, because he was a good few years older than you, possibly both. Even to this day you still haven’t quite escaped the shadow he cast. But you do not think of your solitude as a sign that you remain bound to him. If anything, you have been glad to be alone—and safe.”
She felt the blood drain from her face. He ought not to know this much about her. “I probably should have remained alone. I’m not sure I am safe with you.”
“Tell me what you think of the men in this room.”
She glanced at him, not sure what he wanted.
“Humor me,” he said.
Other than him, there were only three other men. “One of them is glancing toward the girl who loves chocolate with exasperation. He is most likely her brother. Perhapstheir mother is suffering from seasickness and he is forced to play chaperone. The young man who is actually talking to our chocolate lover reminds me a little of my brother: He has that aura of dutifulness to him—someone who takes his responsibilities seriously. I’d say Our Girl of the Hidden Chocolate and her brother have been ordered here by their mother to make a good impression on Responsible Young Man. Except Responsible Young Man is distracted. He keeps looking toward one of the women old enough to be your mother—and who might in fact
be his
mother.
“That woman is speaking to a man in his thirties. And I can see why Responsible Young Man might be wary. He taps his foot incessantly and blinks too much. His smiles don’t quite reach his eyes. And his accent shifts: He is trying to pass himself off as an English gentleman, but I can hear traces of American vowels, especially in
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