we can do to rid you of all that blushing naïveté.”
His northern goddess was undaunted. “I’m hardly naïve, Aunt Lettice.”
Clearly Lady Summers was not used to being contradicted. One arched eyebrow rose high. “My darling child. One journey out of Scotland—such a savage place”—Lady Summer shuddered delicately—“hardly qualifies you as having a knowledge of the world. But it’s not your fault that your upbringing was so hopelessly provincial.”
Miss Rowan—she of the burning hair and just as cold-burning temper—stilled, pausing while the other ladies smiled and made patronizing murmurs of agreement. When she spoke, her voice was calm and deceptively soft. “My dear aunt Lettice, I hardly think the years I spent at school in Paris would qualify me as provincial. ”
“Paris?” Lady Summers’s voice could not hope to regain its aggrandized heights.
Oh, it had pleased him so, to see his goddess thus. Catriona Rowan had calmly done what none of the other women of the clubby, cliquish expatriate set had ever done. She had easily given Lettice Summers as good as she got. Catriona Rowan might have looked ethereal, a spun-sugar confection of a girl in that gown the color of a virginal blush, but underneath was a spine as strong and unyielding as tempered steel. She had looked her silly, vain aunt calmly in the eye, and all but dared her to call Paris a provincial backwater. Not even Lettice Summers had that much self-delusion.
But perhaps Thomas Jellicoe had. He had been self-deluded enough that he was not prepared to hear Lord Summers introduce his Catriona Rowan to a new arrival.
“Birkstead. There you are. Been looking for you. Come, I have someone I want to introduce you to.”
A rime of frost chilled Thomas’s veins. No. Lord Summers could not possibly be so obtuse, or so … so destructive. Had the man not eyes and ears? Did he not understand how deeply, deeply ill-advised such a scheme was?
Evidently not. The new resident commissioner was most definitely pushing the scarlet-coated officer toward his niece. “Catriona, my dear, I give you Lieutenant Jonathan Birkstead. Lieutenant, her ladyship’s niece, Miss Rowan.” The resident commissioner continued with his introduction. “Let me recommend Lieutenant Birkstead to you as an excellent dinner partner, my dear.”
Thomas waited, watching for some sign that his all-knowing, all-seeing goddess would instantly see through the lieutenant, that her instinct for truth would show on her open face. But Miss Rowan hid all of her steel, and had retreated into tea-blush solemnity while giving the handsome lieutenant a long look from under her ginger lashes.
And something unruly and feral had rattled itself awake behind the cage of Thomas’s chest.
Not Birkstead. Anyone but Birkstead.
Thomas told himself the ferocity was logic—his objection stemmed from the fact that he had heard too much of Lieutenant Birkstead’s character to think any decent girl a fit companion for him. A girl as lovely and true as Catriona Rowan would be chewed up and spat out in no time by such a bounder as Birkstead.
But it was not logic. The feeling growling in his chest was an emotion he had forgotten he possessed—rank jealousy, unsheathing itself and sliding into his veins like a cold, insidious blade. A blade he wanted to bury to the hilt, deep in Birkstead’s rotten gut, when the man obediently took Miss Rowan’s arm and led her in to dinner.
This, then, ought to have been the end of his foolish infatuation. He ought to have forced himself to forget Thomas Jellicoe’s dangerous yearnings, and become Tanvir Singh once more, a man of self-discipline and keen understanding. A man who was too smart, too canny to give in to unbidden, dangerous desires.
But fate was a cruel, cruel, demanding mistress, and she was not done playing dice with him. As a single man, Tanvir Singh was seated near the officers, and at an unfortunately convenient distance to watch
His northern goddess was undaunted. “I’m hardly naïve, Aunt Lettice.”
Clearly Lady Summers was not used to being contradicted. One arched eyebrow rose high. “My darling child. One journey out of Scotland—such a savage place”—Lady Summer shuddered delicately—“hardly qualifies you as having a knowledge of the world. But it’s not your fault that your upbringing was so hopelessly provincial.”
Miss Rowan—she of the burning hair and just as cold-burning temper—stilled, pausing while the other ladies smiled and made patronizing murmurs of agreement. When she spoke, her voice was calm and deceptively soft. “My dear aunt Lettice, I hardly think the years I spent at school in Paris would qualify me as provincial. ”
“Paris?” Lady Summers’s voice could not hope to regain its aggrandized heights.
Oh, it had pleased him so, to see his goddess thus. Catriona Rowan had calmly done what none of the other women of the clubby, cliquish expatriate set had ever done. She had easily given Lettice Summers as good as she got. Catriona Rowan might have looked ethereal, a spun-sugar confection of a girl in that gown the color of a virginal blush, but underneath was a spine as strong and unyielding as tempered steel. She had looked her silly, vain aunt calmly in the eye, and all but dared her to call Paris a provincial backwater. Not even Lettice Summers had that much self-delusion.
But perhaps Thomas Jellicoe had. He had been self-deluded enough that he was not prepared to hear Lord Summers introduce his Catriona Rowan to a new arrival.
“Birkstead. There you are. Been looking for you. Come, I have someone I want to introduce you to.”
A rime of frost chilled Thomas’s veins. No. Lord Summers could not possibly be so obtuse, or so … so destructive. Had the man not eyes and ears? Did he not understand how deeply, deeply ill-advised such a scheme was?
Evidently not. The new resident commissioner was most definitely pushing the scarlet-coated officer toward his niece. “Catriona, my dear, I give you Lieutenant Jonathan Birkstead. Lieutenant, her ladyship’s niece, Miss Rowan.” The resident commissioner continued with his introduction. “Let me recommend Lieutenant Birkstead to you as an excellent dinner partner, my dear.”
Thomas waited, watching for some sign that his all-knowing, all-seeing goddess would instantly see through the lieutenant, that her instinct for truth would show on her open face. But Miss Rowan hid all of her steel, and had retreated into tea-blush solemnity while giving the handsome lieutenant a long look from under her ginger lashes.
And something unruly and feral had rattled itself awake behind the cage of Thomas’s chest.
Not Birkstead. Anyone but Birkstead.
Thomas told himself the ferocity was logic—his objection stemmed from the fact that he had heard too much of Lieutenant Birkstead’s character to think any decent girl a fit companion for him. A girl as lovely and true as Catriona Rowan would be chewed up and spat out in no time by such a bounder as Birkstead.
But it was not logic. The feeling growling in his chest was an emotion he had forgotten he possessed—rank jealousy, unsheathing itself and sliding into his veins like a cold, insidious blade. A blade he wanted to bury to the hilt, deep in Birkstead’s rotten gut, when the man obediently took Miss Rowan’s arm and led her in to dinner.
This, then, ought to have been the end of his foolish infatuation. He ought to have forced himself to forget Thomas Jellicoe’s dangerous yearnings, and become Tanvir Singh once more, a man of self-discipline and keen understanding. A man who was too smart, too canny to give in to unbidden, dangerous desires.
But fate was a cruel, cruel, demanding mistress, and she was not done playing dice with him. As a single man, Tanvir Singh was seated near the officers, and at an unfortunately convenient distance to watch
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