Page 46 of A Season for Scandal

“Perhaps” – Helene smiled shyly – “we had better ask Beth to make you some cinnamon biscuits.”

Oliver gave a surprised bark of laughter. “Good God, don’t do that!” he exclaimed. “Let’s not ruin that beloved childhood memory with her dire attempts at baking.”

And with that, he offered one arm to me and one to Helene, and the three of us made our way back to the doorway.

Before we left, I cast one last glance over my shoulder at the painting of Violante and her children.What happened?I wanted to ask her.Where is your daughter now?

Those dark eyes only looked steadily back at me, and a moment later we were gone, leaving her behind in the shadows.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Despite Oliver’s protests, he arrived for dinner dressed in an immaculate dark suit, and he looked so handsome that pretending to be desperately in love with him seemed suddenly all too easy.

“Blame Barker,” he muttered when I commented on how nice he looked. “Seems to have taken advantage of my absence and ordered me a whole new wardrobe from the tailor, now that we’reentertaining.” He tugged at his necktie in annoyance.

“I think that sounds very enterprising,” I said, sipping the glass of wine that Barker had poured for me when we sat down at the table. “You’re fortunate to have him.”

“Should have known you’d be on his side,” Oliver grumbled, leaning back in his chair at the head of the table. His gaze raked over me for a moment before he added, “Your hair is different.”

I lifted a hand to my hair, which Beth had carefully plaited and pinned so that for once my unruly curls were swept into an elegant chignon, only a couple of tendrils left loose to frame my face. The lemon-yellow dress into which I’d changed was one of my best, and the wide neckline left my shoulders bare, the loose strands of hair brushing them gently.

“Thanks to Beth’s interventions.” I grinned. “She’s a marvel too.”

“I must say,” Mrs Lavigne interrupted, clearly overhearing this part from where she sat across the table between her husband and her daughter. “That style suits you very well, Miss Bloom. And what abolddress too. You cut quite the figure. I feel almost dowdy by comparison.” Her laugh was musical.

“You could never be dowdy,” I said lightly, trying hard to ignore the familiar prickle of her honeyed words, the same Simon would have used in her place, I’m sure. “You and Helene carry everything off with such elegance.”

And this was not a lie; both women looked very well in different shades of pale blue, pretty and demure.

“I think we gentlemen may consider ourselves fortunate to be in the company of so many lovely ladies.” Mr Lavigne beamed, his fingers stroking his luxuriant moustache.

“Extremely fortunate,” Mrs Finch agreed serenely. Her own dress, a beautiful deep crimson silk had reduced me to a puddle of envy when I first saw her this evening.

“My dressmaker is a genius,” she had said to me with a small, pleased smile. “I will introduce you, if you like.”

“Yes, please,” I had replied vehemently – finding a dressmaker who knew how to dress bigger bodies with such flair was rare indeed.

“What do you think, Mr Lockhart?” Mrs Lavigne pressed now, dragging my attention back to the moment.

“About what?” Oliver asked, glaring down at the plate that Barker placed in front of him. As much as I liked Beth, it was hard to disagree with Oliver’s assessment of her culinary skills as I peered at the piece of brown meat (beef?) dressed with some sort of brown sauce and various limp accompaniments.

“About the ladies’ gowns, of course!” Mrs Lavigne laughed teasingly. “Do you think Miss Bloom puts us quite in the shade?”

“What the devil should I kn—” Oliver began, but I kicked him in the ankle, and he flinched, turning to me with accusing eyes.

I used my own to try to remind him that we were supposed to bedeeply in love.

Oliver sighed. Then he looked at me again. This time the look lingered, ran along the lines of my gown, skimming from my exposed shoulders up to my face, and I felt a jolt of unexpected heat rush through me.

“I think Miss Bloom sets everyone in the shade,” he said finally with awkward gallantry. “She looks like…” Here he hesitated, looking at me as if for guidance. “A lemon drop,” he finished with an air of desperation.

I laughed. “A lemon drop?”

“Yes,” Oliver said more firmly now. “Lemon drops are my favourite. And they’re pretty. Like you.”

Something peculiar seemed to be happening in my chest.

“Well,” Mrs Lavigne tittered, “I suppose now we can all see the poetic side of Mr Lockhart’s character.”