No More Lonely Nights by Nicole McGehee

eyes. “That’s what Mother wants.”
    “I met him earlier,” Jean said, “and he’s not half bad.”
    Paulette’s eyes widened. “Is that true, Dominique? Is he good-looking?”
    Dominique shrugged.
    “Hmmm, maybe I should have a look at him,” Paulette said speculatively.
    Dominique smiled. “Be my guest.”
    But Solange was careful not to seat any other single young women next to Anton during the midnight supper. His eyes lit with pleasure when he saw that Dominique would be next to him. He scanned her appreciatively, taking in her elegant black gown with its gold satin halter neck and bodice. The gold of the fabric made the highlights in Dominique’s hair shimmer in the candlelight.
    “You look lovely this evening,” Anton told her.
    Dominique smiled—civil, but not warm. She didn’t want to encourage him.
    Anton looked attentively around the room. “Your mother certainly spares nothing in her entertainment,” he commented. “Even the flowers are magnificent!” Solange had cleared two drawing rooms and her game room of their usual furniture in order to set up thirty-six tables for eight. They were covered with Belgian lace tablecloths and matching lace-trimmed napkins. At each place—set with Limoges china and Christofle vermeil—were four Baccarat crystal goblets: one for sherry, one for white wine, one for red wine, and one for champagne. Solange, like most French, did not serve water with dinner.
    Dominique had never considered the scale of her mother’s entertaining. A party for three hundred only occurred once or twice a year, but Solange was no less extravagant when she entertained on a smaller scale, which she did weekly, with scintillating dinners for twelve to twenty guests.
    Dominique said, “Mother loves parties.”
    “You must enjoy them, too,” Anton said, leaning back as a footman placed a serving of cream of chestnut soup in front of him.
    Dominique picked up her soup spoon. “I’m not here much anymore,” she announced, feeling quite grown up and independent.
    Anton paused, his soup spoon poised above the dish, his head tilted questioningly.
    “I live in Ismailia now. I work for the Royal Air Force.”
    Anton couldn’t have looked more shocked if she had confessed to being a stripper. “You… work?” His lips tightened in disapproval. “Your mother doesn’t object?”
    “Oh, she does,” Dominique replied breezily. She laughed at Anton’s expression.
    “In my family,” he intoned, “young unmarried ladies do not work.”
    Dominique smiled. “Well, to each his own.”
    Anton lifted one eyebrow and seemed about to argue. Then, apparently thinking better of it, he nodded politely and said, “Indeed.”
    As the soup plates were cleared, Dominique turned to chat with the man on the other side of her. He was a former beau of her sister, Danielle, and an old friend of the family. She soon found herself laughing gaily at his remarks.
    By the time the dinner was over, Dominique felt a little tipsy from the wine. When she heard the orchestra warming up in the ballroom, she wished Stephen were with her. How wonderful it would be to see in the new year with him. Instead, she found Anton trailing behind her as she made her way to the romantically lit chamber.
    Once they started to dance, however, she began to enjoy herself. Anton’s dancing was smooth and competent. She smiled at him. He wasn’t so bad. She could see how her friends might find him attractive.
    “I wonder,” he asked, “if you’d have dinner with me one night next week?”
    Dominique stiffened. This was too much! She had no intention of encouraging this man. “I’m sorry,” she said with as much sincerity as she could muster, “I return to Ismailia at the end of the week and I have too many people to see here before then.”
    Renard’s face fell. “‘That’s disappointing,” he said gently.
    Dominique felt a pang of guilt at her unequivocal rejection. “Well,” she said with a friendly