He shifted again; his chair seemed harder and less hospitable with each passing moment. He glanced about. "Will she not be joining us? I had expected to see her…"
"But of course," Rosalind said, pinning him with a look that was unabashedly critical as it lowered to his empty hands. No flowers, no chocolates, no token of esteem and affection, it said clearly. He unfolded his hands and spread them tightly, palms down, against his thighs. "It is only that, in such delicate matters, some things are best left to la maman ," she continued. "You must understand: Gabrielle is a tempestuous young girl, whose fiery passions and emotions sometimes run ahead of her judgment.
As her mother, I must exercise restraint for her and see to her best interests."
The glint of determination in her eye said that despite her voluptuary profession, she possessed the necessary amount of that austere virtue. "Tell me, Lord Sandbourne, are you a gaming man?"
"I sit a few rounds, from time to time," he said, stiffening back and feeling the wooden carvings on the top of the chair digging into his spine.
Rosalind nodded, glancing at the others, who again communicated something with their eyes. "You belong to a number of clubs, I assume. Do you normally dine there of an evening, or do you prefer your own cook?"
"My own cook, most evenings." From the sidelong glances they exchanged and the looks on their faces, he wasn't certain how his answers struck them.
"Clubs and restaurants can be so noisy and difficult," Rosalind announced, phrasing her agreement in terms oblique enough to discourage optimism. "How much better to have a quiet meal in the company of a kindred and comforting companion."
In short order he was asked a dozen more questions, ranging from how long he had employed his valet and cook, to the size and character of his wine cellar in town, to how much of the year he spent in the country and whether he intended to travel abroad in the coming year. Additional inquiries elicited from him the facts that he seldom entertained at home, had no intentions of marrying in the foreseeable future, and kept open accounts at Asprey and Co. and Garrard's, jewelers, at Agnew's gallery in Bond Street, with the perfumer Floris, and at Liberty's, Harrods, and a number of the finest haberdashers, wine merchants, and silk drapers in London.
Clearly, he was being interrogated with regard to his reliability as a potential protector, and with a forthrightness that quite shocked him. But their insufferable curiosity did not end with his social habits, personal tastes, and fiscal condition; it extended to his very person. Four pairs of experienced eyes surveyed him thoroughly, if discreetly, from stem to stern.
He could feel them analyzing the quality of his barbering, the cut of his coat, the wear of his boot heels, and the grace of his gestures… even the way he moistened his lips. And if the intimate probing and faint luminosity of their gazes meant what he thought they did, his sensual potential and amorous equipage were also being judged… with professional precision.
It was all he could do to keep his seat, much less his poise. No one in polite society—not even the most brazen of mamas—would have dared mention his solvency, personal tastes, or amorous reputation, much less question them. But, here, in the demimonde—this underlayer of society, which existed to stimulate and satisfy upper-crust males like him—
apparently nothing was taken for granted; rank and wealth, even desire itself, were subject to challenge. Here, things were appallingly reversed; women assessed and passed judgment openly upon men, the way men were wont to evaluate females in the so-called respectable world.
And the only clue to how he was faring in their estimate lay in the bewildering play of glances between them, a form of communication that mortal men were not privileged to understand. A sort of… "feminese."
After a pause, Rosalind fixed a searching look on his
"But of course," Rosalind said, pinning him with a look that was unabashedly critical as it lowered to his empty hands. No flowers, no chocolates, no token of esteem and affection, it said clearly. He unfolded his hands and spread them tightly, palms down, against his thighs. "It is only that, in such delicate matters, some things are best left to la maman ," she continued. "You must understand: Gabrielle is a tempestuous young girl, whose fiery passions and emotions sometimes run ahead of her judgment.
As her mother, I must exercise restraint for her and see to her best interests."
The glint of determination in her eye said that despite her voluptuary profession, she possessed the necessary amount of that austere virtue. "Tell me, Lord Sandbourne, are you a gaming man?"
"I sit a few rounds, from time to time," he said, stiffening back and feeling the wooden carvings on the top of the chair digging into his spine.
Rosalind nodded, glancing at the others, who again communicated something with their eyes. "You belong to a number of clubs, I assume. Do you normally dine there of an evening, or do you prefer your own cook?"
"My own cook, most evenings." From the sidelong glances they exchanged and the looks on their faces, he wasn't certain how his answers struck them.
"Clubs and restaurants can be so noisy and difficult," Rosalind announced, phrasing her agreement in terms oblique enough to discourage optimism. "How much better to have a quiet meal in the company of a kindred and comforting companion."
In short order he was asked a dozen more questions, ranging from how long he had employed his valet and cook, to the size and character of his wine cellar in town, to how much of the year he spent in the country and whether he intended to travel abroad in the coming year. Additional inquiries elicited from him the facts that he seldom entertained at home, had no intentions of marrying in the foreseeable future, and kept open accounts at Asprey and Co. and Garrard's, jewelers, at Agnew's gallery in Bond Street, with the perfumer Floris, and at Liberty's, Harrods, and a number of the finest haberdashers, wine merchants, and silk drapers in London.
Clearly, he was being interrogated with regard to his reliability as a potential protector, and with a forthrightness that quite shocked him. But their insufferable curiosity did not end with his social habits, personal tastes, and fiscal condition; it extended to his very person. Four pairs of experienced eyes surveyed him thoroughly, if discreetly, from stem to stern.
He could feel them analyzing the quality of his barbering, the cut of his coat, the wear of his boot heels, and the grace of his gestures… even the way he moistened his lips. And if the intimate probing and faint luminosity of their gazes meant what he thought they did, his sensual potential and amorous equipage were also being judged… with professional precision.
It was all he could do to keep his seat, much less his poise. No one in polite society—not even the most brazen of mamas—would have dared mention his solvency, personal tastes, or amorous reputation, much less question them. But, here, in the demimonde—this underlayer of society, which existed to stimulate and satisfy upper-crust males like him—
apparently nothing was taken for granted; rank and wealth, even desire itself, were subject to challenge. Here, things were appallingly reversed; women assessed and passed judgment openly upon men, the way men were wont to evaluate females in the so-called respectable world.
And the only clue to how he was faring in their estimate lay in the bewildering play of glances between them, a form of communication that mortal men were not privileged to understand. A sort of… "feminese."
After a pause, Rosalind fixed a searching look on his
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