her what to do. But she was on her own in the hallway. ‘Surely you already understand, I could never consider entertaining an offer such as the one you need to make at the end of the party.’
There. The words were out, gently spoken, and all the tawdry unspoken implications that went with them: that aside from the difference in their stations, his search for a wife in this manner was scandalous to a well and high-born girl of her rank, and that the conditions surrounding the attainment of his money were even more so. She was firmly waving him off, knowing that any girl in the ballroom would gasp at treating the rich Mr Keynes in such a manner. Then again, they’d come to play his game. She had not.
To his credit, Mr Keynes took the rebuke smoothly, as he apparently took all things, except ballrooms full of girls he’d invited but appeared not to want. ‘Of course not. I would not think to presume. I appreciate the clarification.’ He cleared his throat. ‘May I ask, Principessa, are you always this plain-spoken?’
She glanced up with a coy smile on her lips. ‘A necessary measure for one in my position, Mr Keynes. I find it prevents unpleasant surprises, much like your bedroom guards.’
‘Touché.’ He pressed his free hand over his heart in an exaggerated gesture, his eyes laughing as if to reassure her she had not truly hurt his feelings. ‘Now that’s settled, we can move on with our evening. Might I persuade you to call me Sutton?’
‘Familiarity is dangerous, Mr Keynes. I thought we had established that,’ Elidh cautioned.
‘We’ve already established there is no danger here. We said nothing about first names,’ he countered easily. ‘Besides, I’m about to show you my...ancestors. Surely one can’t get more familiar than that.’ He was a dreadful tease. For a man who gave the appearance of eschewing crowds, he was extraordinarily confident and funny when he was alone. Yet one more thing she could add to the list of items she knew about Sutton Keynes. He was a charming man possessed of a sense of humour, who’d arranged a party he didn’t want. There was a mystery in that. If she was smart, she would leave it alone. To solve it would be to know him and to know him might lead to other things she’d not come here for. She’d do best to leave the mystery alone, make her excuses and walk back into the ballroom. But that’s not what Cinderella had done and it wasn’t what she was going to do either. This was a moment out of thousands. Surely it would not endanger her masquerade entirely if she prolonged that moment, just this once.
Elidh laughed up at him. ‘Well, if we’re about to view your ancestors, you should call me Chiara.’ She would take the middle ground and enjoy this interlude now and worry about it later.
He led her through the gallery, narrating with dry humour as they went. ‘Shall we start with my uncle, the man who’s caused this whole mad tangle? That’s him right there just to the left, Sir Leland Keynes, my father’s brother. He was knighted for establishing a British presence in the extremely lucrative Soojam Valley of Kashmir, a place noted for its sapphires. Too bad he hadn’t found some more. He might have been made baron and this whole fiasco could have been avoided.’
Elidh furrowed her brow. ‘How so?’
He looked surprised for a moment and she worried over a misstep. Should she have known? Was the reason obvious to anyone but her? ‘Because everything would have been entailed,’ he explained, ‘Nothing could have stopped my cousin from getting his hands on it. Not even if I married the Queen herself.’ The bitterness was self-evident in his tone. She didn’t understand entirely why. The gossip column had only provided so much detail.
They started to stroll again, moving on to the next portrait, this one of a great-grandfather on his mother’s side. ‘You make it sound as if you don’t want the money.’ Elidh slid him a sideways glance. She couldn’t imagine not wanting that much money or the security that came with it. ‘Or is it the marrying you’re opposed to?’
‘Both, I suppose, but especially the latter. I doubt any one of those women in there is interested in me. I am just the living embodiment of British pound notes.’ He chuckled drily, but she could see the admission bothered him. ‘I am sure you understand.’ He sighed, his blue eyes seeking hers, two sombre flames. Oh, how that gaze seared her with its attention, its intensity, a slice of his soul on display. His voice was quiet, thoughtful. ‘It’s ironic. You are a stranger to me, entirely. But you are the only one here I can confess that to who would know how it feels to lose their humanity, to become a representation of something other than who they truly are.’
Elidh was silent. For a moment, she mistook his meaning and thought he’d somehow guessed her ruse and seen through the disguise. Then she understood and the knife of guilt twisted a little deeper. She’d not come here to mislead this man. She hadn’t her father’s nerves for deep schemes. She tried to push the guilt away. An attractive man was showering her with attention. But that only made it worse. He was showering the Principessa with attention. Sutton Keynes would never look twice at plain, twiggy Elidh Easton, a girl who knew nothing about titles and fortunes, who was, in fact, the embodiment of what he professed to hate: a representation of something other than her true self.
She’d been worth leaving the party for. The promise of that red dress had not disappointed. He’d feared it might, that she might be all dress and nothing else—a red-silk illusion best enjoyed at a distance, like the other girls who had nothing on the inside or, worse, like Anabeth Morely, who’d been all kinds of soft and beautiful on the outside but cruel on the inside. She’d had no qualms about destroying a young man’s heart.
They stopped before another portrait, this one of a funny-looking gentleman with a long nose, protuberant, froglike eyes and a powdered wig, a toad of a man in demeanour and build, but highly ambitious and resourceful. ‘Randolph Sutton Keynes, my namesake of sorts. His service to King George I earned him this house. It certainly wasn’t his looks.’ He tried for levity and fell short. She was withdrawing and had been since his remark about being an object. He couldn’t blame her. It was hardly the sort of conversation one had with a stranger at a party, nor was it the sort of conversation he was used to having with others. As a rule, he didn’t make a habit of self-disclosing.
‘Forgive me, I’ve made you uncomfortable. I’ve taken terrible advantage of you with my maudlin sentiments.’ He was doing it again. Pouring out his thoughts. ‘It’s just that everything has happened so fast. Last week I could take refuge in my club like any other gentleman. Then the announcement came out and now I can’t step foot anywhere, my club included, without someone approaching me with an introduction, or producing another female to meet.’
What was wrong with him? He blamed it on the dark intimacy of the hallway and the emotions of the week, and her own, welcoming boldness, not that a gentleman should ever take advantage of such a trait. She’d been open with him and he had been open with her in turn. She made him feel as if he could tell her anything. Perhaps it was because she’d made it clear she was not interested in the game of the party. Or perhaps it was because she was a stranger, someone he’d never see again. Maybe, in some way, that made it easier to pour out his heart. He sensed she would never take advantage of that knowledge, never tell another soul. Whereas, if he told anyone else in the ballroom, the news would circulate within minutes. London couldn’t keep a secret if its life depended on it.
‘I don’t mind, truly. You’ve barely had time to grieve your uncle and yet there are expectations that must immediately be managed, regardless.’
Sutton shrugged. ‘I suppose you’re used to managing such things all the time. Tell me, does it get easier?
