He reached for his glass of soda water. “Here’s a fine Parisian custom,” he said, and splashed half the glass into Elma’s wine. He reached over Gwen’s elbow to empty the other half into hers. The Italian sent him a beseeching look. He smiled maliciously.
“. . . buy all the flowers in Paris,” Gwen was saying, “and fill an entire hotel with them! Wouldn’t that be the most horrid good fun? I expect everybody would be forced to evacuate for sneezing! You would not sneeze, though, would you? You seem far too masculine to sneeze.”
God above. Someone really needed to teach her how to flirt.
Elma’s breath gusted across his ear. “Yes, soda water, a very good idea. That’s her third glass this evening, you know; she ordered one to the room beforehand. I would stop her, that is, I did try to stop her, but she told me that there was no harm in a glass, which I suppose is true. They do say that wine thickens the blood, don’t they? And jiltings do wear on the constitution.” A hint of anxiety flashed across her face. “I only want her to enjoy herself,” she added softly. “Lord knows that once she’s married, Parisian holidays may come few and far between.”
And on that note, she drank her wine straight down.
Alex sighed, suddenly divining the larger picture. Gwen was not the only one who had come to Paris to cut loose. Mr. Beecham apparently wore on the constitution as well.
Bloody good luck that none of this was his concern. Gwen was right: he had not promised Richard to make her behave, nor to play her caretaker while her actual chaperone wallowed in nostalgia for her own lost youth. If his sisters had sent that telegram hoping he would oversee this mess, they’d been badly mistaken. He didn’t have the energy. He barely had the attention span. Dear God, he needed some sleep.
In fact, he had no idea why he’d agreed to stay for dinner. He should excuse himself and go find a meal that actually proved edible, and perhaps a dose of laudanum for dessert. He’d resisted drugs until now; God knew he’d gotten his fill of medicine in his youth. But at some point, one had to concede the inevitable—
A radish flew past, launched from somewhere down the table by a fork made unsteady by too much wine. It landed in Elma’s glass, drawing a multinational cry from up and down the table: Oh lá lá, Youpi, Gut gemacht!
Flushing, Elma lifted the glass in a triumphant toast. The balding gallant at her right promptly offered his own in exchange. She turned toward her admirer, leaving all Alex’s attention for Gwen, who was still laughing.
It was a lovely, uninhibited sound, and it turned the heads of the glowering Austrians, who unbent and gave her a smile. Alex smiled a little himself. Her laughter held an elated note, expressive of more than simple amusement. Listening to her, one had the impression that she was thrilled to be in the world, and saw no shortage of wonders to delight her.
She glanced to him as she fell silent, but her dark eyes still sparkled with mirth. “I like these flying radishes,” she said. Her cheeks glowed from the wine, and in the dim lighting, her hair looked the russet shade of autumn leaves. She looked invitingly, irresistibly warm, a bonfire on a frozen winter night. “I don’t think I’d approve of flying cabbage,” she added, “but radishes, I’ll gladly encourage.”
He cleared his throat. “Live wildly,” he said. “Throw one yourself.”
“Perhaps I will.” Her expression was arch. “Certainly I proved that I was capable of it yesterday.”
There were a dozen obvious places to touch her. The hollow of her throat. The curve of her brow. Beneath her lower lip—that faint shadow in the shape of a downturned half-moon, marking the spot where her pointed chin began to jut outward.
He’d counted them all before. They made an excellent list of reasons to keep the hell away from her.
“Yesterday proved that you know how to buy your way out of trouble,” he said. “Not much else.”
“Oh?” Lifting her brow, she reached out and put one slim finger beneath his chin.
He’d not been expecting it. His breath caught from sheer surprise.
For other reasons, every muscle in his body tightened as well.
“I know how to flirt,” she murmured. “The Italian has been teaching me.”
He reached up and caught hold of her hand. If he stood up now, he’d become the sort of spectacle more often provided by fourteen-year-old boys. “You’re drunk,” he said. “Enjoying it?”
She laughed softly. Her eyes were a warm, rich brown, the color of loam upturned in the planting season. “I haven’t decided yet.”
His thumb discovered its own will, pressing slowly into the warm, soft cavern of her palm. Hot and soft, slightly moist; her sweat would be more fragrant than any perfume. “You’ll have to let me know,” he said, and his own hushed voice startled some distant part of him; he sounded drunk himself.