dark eyes. If nothing else, I would measure this man by his reaction to my appearance. I smiled a little as I remembered all the little gallantries, men stumbling over themselves vying for my favor. Was it so bad to admit how much I missed the attention?
I was ready far too early, and all the rest was impatience. I paced, I tried to read, I watched the clock and its slow count of the seconds. I checked the table settings; I went into the kitchen to be certain the cook was not spoiling the beef bourguignon and that the Nesselrode pudding was chilling. I checked the decanters in the parlor—all full: sherry, port, bourbon, and scotch. A bottle of absinthe, for which I had the maid bring ice water and sugar.
I expected Nathan by six; by six-thirty, he still had not returned home. I stared out the window over the haphazard layof the city as the sun set, the Olympic mountains on the other side of the Sound fading into deep blue shadows against pink and gold and then disappearing altogether into the empty darkness beyond the haze of the streetlamps. I wondered if he’d forgotten. I wondered if perhaps the dinner had been canceled and he’d neglected to tell me. Six-forty-five, and twilight, and still no Nathan. Then, promptly at seven, there was a knock on the door. Sebastian DeWitt. I felt a little stab of excitement, and worry too, because I could not imagine Nathan meant for me to receive him alone.
But I’d received far more important men alone, and there was the maid, and … I hated that I must think of this. For God’s sake, I intended nothing untoward; what did it matter?
Still, as I heard Bonnie go to the door, murmured talk, I crossed my arms and stared out the window, willing Nathan’s carriage—this was unlike him, to be so late. An hour past his usual time. Undoubtedly something had happened to keep him.
I heard the footsteps down the hall, the pause at the parlor.
Bonnie said, “Mr. DeWitt, ma’am.”
I turned from the window, and when I saw the man standing behind her, I forgot Nathan and everything else.
Sebastian DeWitt was a lean, clean-shaven man with longish dark hair and pale eyes. He was attractive in an underfed way, but more important, he had that muse-driven confidence I recognized. I’d seen it enough in those who’d come to my salon, and his frock coat, which was not in fashion and very worn, only emphasized it. He reminded me immediately of Claude; he had that air about him, whether studied or not, that said art was the only thing that mattered. I was fascinated by him already.
I smiled and held out my hands. “Mr. DeWitt! You are very welcome.”
He came forward, taking one of my hands. His fingers were marked with faded ink stains, as if he’d tried vainly to wash them away. He had a heavy leather satchel over one shoulder, as worn as his coat. But his thick hair was neatly combed and shining, and his smile was compelling and confident. “Mrs. Langley. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Unfortunately, my husband’s been delayed,” I said. “But Iexpect him shortly. We shall just have to carry on without him for a time. Would you care for a drink before dinner? I’ve sherry, or something stronger. There’s absinthe, if you like.”
“No absinthe,” he said. His voice was smooth, an actor’s voice, perfectly pitched. “But I will have some bourbon, if you have it.”
I motioned for him to sit as I poured the bourbon. It seemed forever since I’d entertained someone like him, and the fact that I liked his look, that he reminded me so sharply of Claude—oh, not his features so much, though there was that same aesthetic about him, but his air, his manner.… I bit my lip, trying to harness my thoughts, my reaction.
I turned back to him. His fingers were warm against mine when he took the glass, and he gulped a little hastily, as if he too were nervous, which reassured me. There was a great deal at stake for him, I remembered, and I sat down beside him on the settee
I was ready far too early, and all the rest was impatience. I paced, I tried to read, I watched the clock and its slow count of the seconds. I checked the table settings; I went into the kitchen to be certain the cook was not spoiling the beef bourguignon and that the Nesselrode pudding was chilling. I checked the decanters in the parlor—all full: sherry, port, bourbon, and scotch. A bottle of absinthe, for which I had the maid bring ice water and sugar.
I expected Nathan by six; by six-thirty, he still had not returned home. I stared out the window over the haphazard layof the city as the sun set, the Olympic mountains on the other side of the Sound fading into deep blue shadows against pink and gold and then disappearing altogether into the empty darkness beyond the haze of the streetlamps. I wondered if he’d forgotten. I wondered if perhaps the dinner had been canceled and he’d neglected to tell me. Six-forty-five, and twilight, and still no Nathan. Then, promptly at seven, there was a knock on the door. Sebastian DeWitt. I felt a little stab of excitement, and worry too, because I could not imagine Nathan meant for me to receive him alone.
But I’d received far more important men alone, and there was the maid, and … I hated that I must think of this. For God’s sake, I intended nothing untoward; what did it matter?
Still, as I heard Bonnie go to the door, murmured talk, I crossed my arms and stared out the window, willing Nathan’s carriage—this was unlike him, to be so late. An hour past his usual time. Undoubtedly something had happened to keep him.
I heard the footsteps down the hall, the pause at the parlor.
Bonnie said, “Mr. DeWitt, ma’am.”
I turned from the window, and when I saw the man standing behind her, I forgot Nathan and everything else.
Sebastian DeWitt was a lean, clean-shaven man with longish dark hair and pale eyes. He was attractive in an underfed way, but more important, he had that muse-driven confidence I recognized. I’d seen it enough in those who’d come to my salon, and his frock coat, which was not in fashion and very worn, only emphasized it. He reminded me immediately of Claude; he had that air about him, whether studied or not, that said art was the only thing that mattered. I was fascinated by him already.
I smiled and held out my hands. “Mr. DeWitt! You are very welcome.”
He came forward, taking one of my hands. His fingers were marked with faded ink stains, as if he’d tried vainly to wash them away. He had a heavy leather satchel over one shoulder, as worn as his coat. But his thick hair was neatly combed and shining, and his smile was compelling and confident. “Mrs. Langley. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Unfortunately, my husband’s been delayed,” I said. “But Iexpect him shortly. We shall just have to carry on without him for a time. Would you care for a drink before dinner? I’ve sherry, or something stronger. There’s absinthe, if you like.”
“No absinthe,” he said. His voice was smooth, an actor’s voice, perfectly pitched. “But I will have some bourbon, if you have it.”
I motioned for him to sit as I poured the bourbon. It seemed forever since I’d entertained someone like him, and the fact that I liked his look, that he reminded me so sharply of Claude—oh, not his features so much, though there was that same aesthetic about him, but his air, his manner.… I bit my lip, trying to harness my thoughts, my reaction.
I turned back to him. His fingers were warm against mine when he took the glass, and he gulped a little hastily, as if he too were nervous, which reassured me. There was a great deal at stake for him, I remembered, and I sat down beside him on the settee
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