The lady’s slim eyebrows rose, and she glanced down at her shorter husband, a moment of connection to ask his opinion, but he hadn’t seen and stared back, unblinking.
The Countess of Oxford asked Gen, “Are you quite all right, dear?”
“Yes,” Gen ground out. Her voice shook, and she staggered a step away from Lord Severn.
He dropped his arm and continued as if nothing were wrong. “Lord Oxford is an award-winning author. Sadly, fiction writing is beneath his station, so he must keep it a closely held secret, which means absolutely everyone knows.”
The Earl of Oxford beamed up at Lord Severn. “My scribblings are for my own amusement and my friends’ mockery.”
Lord Severn told Gen, “He is short-listed for every major prize in Europe this year, from the Booker to the Nobel.”
Lord Oxford laughed and turned away. “Oh, you cad.”
Lord Severn chuckled, and the diversion had given Gen enough time to breathe and laugh a little, too.
Damn it. She had practiced what to do if Lord Severn, Arthur, put his arm around her waist or shoulders by winding those court robes around herself, feeling what it would be like for him to reach around her and touch her so she would get used to it, but she had freaked out anyway.
Damn it.
She reached over and touched his hand, trying to apologize for looking like an idiot in front of his friends.
His fingers barely touched hers before he lifted his hand to gesture at someone standing over by the open doors that led to the garden. “Oh, Gen. There’s someone else whom I want you to meet. So nice seeing you, Edward, Anne. Come with me, Gen.”
Gen stumbled after him, still shaking.
He led her over to another couple standing just outside the doors. The cool night air blew in the doors as they walked out into the cobblestoned garden. Outside, instead of supper tables, a bar was set up near a dance floor. A string quartet played something soft and classical that Gen didn’t recognize. For her, the music from the two violins, the slightly larger violin, and the cello blended.
She said to him, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
Lord Severn said over her, “Nigel and Daria, may I introduce Genevieve Ward, a pupil barrister at Serle’s Court Barristers, and my close friend.”
A middle-aged couple stood there, their heads canted toward each other. Both of them smiled slightly crooked, British smiles.
The lady’s smile seemed amused because her eyebrows were slightly raised as she regarded Gen.
The gentleman inclined his head. “A close friend of Arthur’s? Exceptional. How do you do?”
“Oh, I’m fine,” Gen piped up. “I got a little flustered just now, but I’m fine.”
Neither one of them changed their somewhat kind and slightly interested expressions.
Arthur cleared his throat. “Gen, may I present Lord Nigel Appleby and Lady Daria Appleby, the Earl and Countess of Rosslyn.”
Gen brushed her palm over her hip to dry it and held out her hand. “Pleased to meetcha. This is quite a get-up, huh?”
Uh-oh. She’d gotten all rattled and reverted to speaking Texan. Well, shucks. It probably didn’t matter.
Lord Rosslyn said, “Yes, it certainly is an event.”
“It’s the first time I’ve been to a benefit for the Rainforest Alliance,” Gen said. “It’s really nice.”
“That’s a refreshing attitude,” Lady Rosslyn said. “These things can be dull.”
Lord Severn touched her elbow. “Gen, shall we get a drink? The bar is just over this way.”
“If you’ve been to a lot of benefit suppers,” Gen said to Lady Daria, “I suppose they might get old after a while. The hotel is really beautiful, right? All that marble, and those lovely chandeliers. I just can’t get over them.”
Lady Rosslyn said, “I thought them a bit overdone.”
Nigel inclined his head, and his bloodless lips thinned. “And who is your pupil master at Serle’s Court?”
“Octavia Hawkes,” Gen said. “I like her.”
“Hawkes is my barrister for the wealth management firm that I founded,” Lady Rosslyn said. “Do you work closely with her?”
“Oh, yes,” Gen said, nodding. Her hair, twisted up the back of her head, flopped in its pins. “We work on a lot of cases together.”
Lady Rosslyn smiled. “Oh, splendid.”
Lord Severn, Arthur, held her elbow this time. “Gen, let’s go get a drink. Nigel, Daria, pleased to see you again. Do drop by for a visit at Spencer House sometime. I’m there for weeks at a time, now. It was open for public tours during Christmas, so I stayed away.”
“Oh, that’s unfortunate. The National Trust demands so much for their pittance, even our homes at Christmas,” Lord Rosslyn said.
“Yes, I’ll only go out there for a few weekdays once visiting season begins in June.”
“Oh, quite,” Lord Rosslyn said. “Our country house is open to the public on weekends, too. It’s such a good idea to move into town for the summer.”
“I’m planning a few suppers for the spring, between visiting seasons. I’d be honored if you attended.”
“We’d be pleased to come.”
Lord Severn, Arthur, led Gen away.
At the bar, he asked what she wanted, which was “White wine?” He ordered a chardonnay for her.
“I don’t know what I’m doing here,” Gen told him. “I’m out of my league. I’m floundering. Lord Severn, you should take me home.”
“Call me Arthur. Someone may overhear you.”
He handed her the wine glass, a real glass glass, not a plastic fake-cup. Dang, they did everything upscale at these things.
He said, “Just breathe.”
“That’s the problem. When I breathe, I get enough air to say something stupid.”
Lord Severn, Arthur, chuckled. “I’ll smooth it over with them.”
“But they’re clients. Octavia specifically warned me not to say anything stupid around clients!”
He shrugged. “They were friends of my parents. That’s what the Spencer House invitation was about, reminding them of our connections.”
“I can’t have you doing that, Lord Severn,” she said, shaking her head.
“Arthur. Now we’re going to practice. Call me Arthur.”
“It seems wrong.”
His voice dropped to a deeper, darker tone. “Say my name, Arthur.”
Gen stared at her glass. “Arthur.”
“Again.”
“Arthur.”
“Say something else, and call me Arthur.”
“Arthur, I can’t let you put yourself out for me, Arthur.”
“Good girl.” His voice rose half an octave to what was still a deep voice for a man, but closer to his normal tone. “These little favors that we pay each other, these little social gives and takes, this is the way the world works.” Arthur received his drink from the bartender, something clear in a highball glass, and he clinked his glass against hers. “Salut.”
“My boss would like that. She’s got Machiavelli quotes framed in her office. It’s creepy. ‘The arms of others either fall from your back, or they weigh you down, or they bind you fast.’ That one is her screensaver on her laptop.”
He shrugged. “Machiavelli wrote The Prince as satire. Everything else he wrote was in favor of a free republic.”
“Do you think so? That was the prevailing argument during the Enlightenment, but Octavia quotes it like Gospel.”
He smirked. “Power-hungry dictators rarely see the humor in anything, let alone a work aimed directly at them.”
She laughed. “You say that like you know it’s a fact.”
“I’m a hereditary aristocrat and courtier who attended a boarding school for the children of oligarchs and deposed royalty. Some of my closest friends are power-hungry dictators.”
“Arthur, you slay me. I never know when you’re kidding.”
He laughed. “Perhaps I’m never kidding.”
�
��I can’t believe that.”
He glanced over her shoulder and into the crowd. The smile fell off his face. “My brother is here.”
Gen cracked up. “See? You’re hysterical. You’re kidding me right now.”
His jaw bulged where he clenched it. “He’s just seen us and is coming over. Don’t say anything because he’ll seize any opportunity to his advantage.” He raised his hand and grinned. “Christopher! Such a surprise to see you.”
The man who walked over to the bar was nearly as tall as Arthur was, but he had faded auburn hair and sharper features. He was still handsome as all heck, but he was a paler, slighter version of his brother. “Hello, Arthur. Fancy meeting you here.”
So this was Christopher Finch-Hatten, the plaintiff—the British say claimant—the guy who was suing the wayward Earl for his inheritance.
He didn’t look all that much like Arthur.
His eyes, though. Gen took a long look at the man’s eyes. Christopher had the same pale, silvery eyes as Arthur did. Perhaps they were a little less steel-blue than Arthur’s were, a little more dreary-day gray, but he had the same dark lashes and slightly almond shape that looked so sexy on Arthur.
Gen had to stop thinking things like that about her client.
Arthur said to Christopher, “I thought we divvied up the charities better than this.”
“Yes, it’s a pity that we had to run into each other, but Duchess Maria Shrewsbury is one of my patients.” He turned to Gen. “I’m a physician, you know. I’ve made something of myself and done something with my life, unlike my waste of a brother, here.”
Gen fell back on platitudes. “A pleasure to meet you, I’m sure.”
Christopher winked at her. “Yes, I’m sure, too. You seem like a nice girl. Why don’t we have a drink rather than you wasting your time with Arthur? He’ll break your heart after he’s fucked you once or twice.”
Sweet baby Jesus, Christopher was talking that way to her when she was supposed to be Arthur’s date.
Gen looked up at Arthur, expecting him to be livid, but his smile hadn’t changed. Arthur did sigh before he asked, “Is your lovely wife here, Christopher?”
Wife?
Oh, hell, no.
Gen lowered her eyebrows at Christopher.
“No, she’s not,” Christopher said, frowning that Arthur had played dirty at their little game. “Is this woman one of the three tarts in the picture with you last night? Is this the one who provides you with your cocaine?”
Arthur glanced across the garden and raised his glass to someone. “I see Maria over by the shrimp bowls. Has the duchess had melanoma, then, and that’s why she retained your services?”
“Privileged,” Christopher said, obviously pleased with himself at his privileged, personal information about the duchess, “but she has never been ill a day in her life.”
Arthur turned to Gen. “That means the duchess had extensive amounts of cosmetic surgery, not skin cancer.”
“Now, now!” Christopher said. “I said nothing of the sort.”
“Of course not, Chrissy,” Arthur said.Christopher
Christopher’s tone grew more serious. “See here, now, Arthur. I’ve asked you not to call me that.”
“I use that name in memory of our mother, who called you that when you were in your infancy,” Arthur said, his tone light and amused.
Christopher frowned, his colorless eyes narrowed. “I don’t remember that at all.”
Arthur glanced at him. “Of course you don’t, but I remember them.”
This was a family spat, and Gen didn’t need to be there. She started to step back, but Arthur grabbed her fingers to keep her there.
Christopher said, “I don’t need to remember them. I had a perfectly respectable English home with Aunt Jayne and Uncle Peter here in England. I’m not some Swiss usurper, rolling in and snatching up titles from real Englishmen.”
Arthur smiled at Christopher. His tone was convivial, even complimentary. “Yes, you’re the one saving England, aren’t you?”
“I’m saving one human life at a time,” Christopher snarled, his eyes narrowing. “I devote much of my time to charity, taking on pro bono cases from poor immigrants from the East End and flying around the world to help people in poverty such—”
“—That you spoiled earls will never know,” Arthur finished with him. “Yes, yes. I heard it at your wedding reception and every award ceremony for you that I have ever attended.” His jovial tone didn’t seem angry at all, more like he was indulging in an often-repeated joke.
Wow. Gen would have decked Christopher for saying something like that to her. Her fist closed like she still might punch him. Second sons of earls shouldn’t mess with Texans.
The crowd was flowing past them from the garden back into the ballroom.
Arthur said, “I believe they are seating for supper. Do keep yourself out of trouble, Christopher, and give my love to Jacquetta and the girls, won’t you?”
He led Gen off among the tables.
Arthur found their name tags on seats right up near the hostess’s table. He greeted Duchess Somerset warmly and kissed both her tucked cheeks. Gen had been hanging around Octavia Hawkes long enough to be able to list the fillers and injectables that the duchess must be utilizing to stay so smoothly ageless, but she seemed like a nice lady.
Their table had a tall placard in the middle of the bouquet that read Platinum Circle. When she glanced at the back of the room, Christopher Finch-Hatten was seated near the wall, and his bouquet didn’t have a sign on it.
Gen leaned over and whispered to Arthur, “Were you an actor or something?”
He shook his head and raised an eyebrow at her. “Never had a taste for it. Why?”
“I would have punched somebody who said that kind of stuff, family or not. Maybe especially family.”
He chuckled. “I considered punching him when he came on to you. Other than that, he says things like that all the time. No use getting one’s feathers ruffled over it.”
“You certainly have a talent for acting. I would have believed everything you said to him.”
Arthur looked off over the crowd in the ballroom. “I wouldn’t have.”
Supper turned out to be a choice of vegetarian, salmon, pheasant, or prime rib, not rubbery chicken at all. Arthur had the roasted butternut squash salad, she noted, and ate the greens and slices of barbecued vegetarian meat-like substance.
Gen had the prime rib, rare. She didn’t get prime rib very often, or ever, actually. The last time she had had prime rib had been at her mother’s birthday supper in Texas the year before her father had died.
The meat melted when she cut it with her fork and on her tongue, releasing roasted juices. She chewed every bite slowly, savoring it.
At the supper, Gen asked Arthur about the Rainforest Alliance, and he brightened when he talked about it. His silvery eyes sparkled more as he discussed acreage of Amazonian and other rainforests saved by the charity, just by buying it up rather than fighting with governments.
“You sound really enthused,” she told him, “like this is really important to you.”
“Me? Heavens, no,” he chuckled. “I attend these charity balls and buy overpriced auction lots merely to prove my scant worth as a human being and save my immortal soul.”
She laughed. “At least some good comes out of it.”
“I prefer to do charitable work with some hands-on time.” Arthur leaned his elbow on the table and ducked his head as he whispered, “Did I ever tell you about the time that I was a kitten socializer at a humane society?”
Gen couldn’t imagine Lord Severn, the notorious slacker, voluntarily playing with kittens. “Were you really?”
He pulled his phone out of his pocket. “I think some friends may have taken some pictures.”
There was even a video—played silently because they were in the center of a packed charity supper—where Arthur was laughing his head off while tiny balls of fluff climbed up his shirt
and perched on his shoulder. A black puff of silk fuzz rubbed its wee face on his ear and cheek while he shook with giggles.
Gen asked him, “So how many women fall for this B.S. and sleep with you?”
“A surprising number, considering how easy this was,” Arthur replied, one eyebrow dipping as if he were mystified. He confided to her, “I should do one with puppies.”
She laughed, and they joked for the rest of the supper.
One of the stories he told ended with, “And there I was, trussed up like a mummy, hanging upside-down from a bridge in Budapest. I must have looked like a bat because villagers, actual villagers, were coming across the bridge, pointing and shouting, ‘Vampyre!’ They spelled it with a ‘y.’ You could hear the ‘y’ by the way they said it.”
His stories all ended with him nearly murdered due to a misunderstanding or naked in public.
She cracked up at every single one of them.
Arthur could be absolutely charming when he wasn’t accusing her of inflating billable hours or educating her on the legal system of Britain.
He laughed at a stupid thing that she said about legal maneuvering, his silvery eyes flashing as he rocked back in his chair.
Yes, he could be absolutely charming.
She had the sugared strawberries for dessert, slicing the dark, sweet fruit into quarters and practically purring with happiness as she ate them. Gen liked chocolate, sure, but sweet, ripe strawberries were the food of the gods.
Arthur watched her as she ate them. “You like the strawberries?”
“Oh, my God, yes,” she groaned, sucking another scarlet berry into her mouth and letting the juice wash over her tongue.
Arthur nodded and went back to his dish of melons and cheese.
The supper dishes were cleared away, and the string quartet out in the garden area struck up a waltz. Some of the pretty couples got up to dance, the women wearing vibrant dresses that must be couture and the men in tailored, dark tuxedos. Within seconds, they were whirling and waltzing over the dance floor.
She watched the gem-toned gowns and sharp suits move, trying not to look wistful.
Beside her, Arthur stood and opened his hand to her. “Shall we?”
Stiff Drink: Runaway Billionaires: Arthur Duet #1 Page 10