Winter Garden by Adele Ashworth Page A

he.
    â€œDo you know Baron Rothebury well, Lady Claire?” Madeleine interjected at last.
    The woman’s features waxed brittle as she shifted hard, bloodshot eyes to her for the first time in minutes. “Not nearly as well as I know Thomas.”
    â€œI wouldn’t imagine so,” she returned quickly, politely, scooping an apple slice onto her spoon. “But I have heard a great deal about him in recent days and I think I would like to meet him.”
    Without a second of pause, the woman sneered. “I don’t think that will happen. He is not of your class, Mrs. DuMais.”
    A footman coughed. Thomas shifted a booted foot across the polished floor. Caught completely off guard, Madeleine nearly choked on the smooth, rich cinnamon-flavored confection sliding down her throat. Neverhad anyone of gentle breeding been so pointedly rude directly to her person.
    She stiffened and slowly lowered her spoon to her plate. “I realize he and I probably have little in common—”
    â€œI think that is an understatement,” the lady cut in. She finally lifted her hand from Thomas’s sleeve and sat up, reaching for her wineglass, gripping it gracelessly enough to splash a few tiny drops over the side. “I suppose where you are from women of all kinds express familiarity with well-bred gentlemen, but it doesn’t happen here.”
    Even in France, familiarity meant a great deal more than acquaintance. Madeleine remained composed, but her appetite had floundered. Seconds of uncomfortable silence passed, then Thomas cleared his throat and leaned a little toward her, shielding her in a manner with his broad shoulder.
    â€œI think what Mrs. DuMais means is that she would like to meet a number of people during her stay in Winter Garden,” he offered very smoothly, his voice and smile conveying charm and reason. “Baron Rothebury is only one. And perhaps it won’t happen. She won’t be in England very long.”
    Lady Claire’s gaze narrowed as she looked from one to the other. Then she took a long swallow of wine and set the glass back on the table. “I’m sure that’s for the best. He hosts a ball each January, you know. The annual Winter Masquerade. A beautiful party every year. Perhaps you’d like to escort me, Thomas?”
    â€œI should find that most enjoyable, Lady Claire,” he answered thoughtfully. “But in truth, I doubt I’ll receive an invitation. I’m not especially of his class, either.”
    She looked stung. “Of course you are. You are an educated man.” Waving a hand in irritation, she dismissed it. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter in the least. I shall take you as my guest.”
    Thomas nodded very slowly, spooning a bit of his cobbler. Then with deliberation, he murmured, “But what of Mrs. DuMais?”
    The lady’s expression tightened. “What about her?”
    Thomas shrugged subtly. “Who will escort her if she is still in town?”
    Madeleine knew he was intentionally provoking the woman. There were an assortment of reasonable responses already discussed, not one of them needing to be spoken again.
    Lady Claire bristled in her chair, making the bones in her shoulders even more pronounced. “She is not worthy of an invitation, Thomas. She is your employee and nothing more.”
    The air grew stifling suddenly. Madeleine folded her hands in her lap, waiting, refusing to speak in her own defense and ignoring the insults for the good of her profession.
    Thomas took another bite of his cobbler then laid his spoon to the side. “But she is also educated, Lady Claire, and as Englishmen we should be hospitable while she is visiting our country, don’t you agree?” He smiled again and leaned forward over the corner of the table. “Maybe the baron would find her company charming. That would leave more time for you and I to spend together.”
    The tops of the