With Love from London(7)

“Yes,” I said quickly. The lie flew out of my mouth with such speed, I was stunned by my own brazenness.

“That speech he gave!” he said. “Could it have been any longer?”

“Or any duller?” I added, trudging deeper into my deception.

He smiled. “Why have we never met? You’re…different than most of the women here.”

My cheeks flushed.

“I meant that as a compliment, Miss…”

“Wilkins. Eloise Wilkins.”

“Miss Eloise Wilkins,” he said, taking another puff from his neglected cigar as he glanced through the window to the dining room. “The women in there are—well, how do I put this delicately?” He paused, then nodded. “They’re rather…forgettable—all the same, down to their gloved hands.”

At first, I assumed his words were a veiled commentary on my own gloveless hands, but the thought vanished when he reached for my hand and kissed my bare wrist ceremoniously. “How do you do?”

“Well, I’ll admit, I’ve had better evenings….” I withdrew my hand and tucked my arms back inside the warmth of his jacket.

“Tell me,” he continued, smiling, “has your family been members here for a very long time?”

I nodded tentatively. “My father was a…very private man. He…kept his name and his business interests far from the public eye. After he passed…it all went into a…trust for my mother and me.”

“Sounds like a smart chap,” he said, “and an admirable one.”

If only he knew how far from the truth that was.

“Well, look at us, standing in the cold outside the stuffiest club in London where it apparently has taken us a lifetime to meet.”

“And what brings you here this evening?” I asked, attempting to deflect his attention from my past.

He grinned at me curiously, rubbing his chiseled jawline. “Your turn to sum me up, I see?

“Maybe,” I said, playing along.

He shrugged. “The answer is simple. My father made a name for himself in the car business, and membership was a necessity.” He sighs. “And to your question, why am I here? Simple: I’m a good son.”

“What do you mean, exactly?”

“Well, Miss Wilkins, you see, when you’re the eldest son, and you’ve just turned thirty-four, as I have, without a marriage prospect on the horizon, your family, naturally, becomes obsessed with finding you a wife.” He took a puff of his cigar. “Tonight is my sister’s latest, and worst, attempt.”

I smiled. “So, I gather a proposal isn’t imminent, then?”

He walked closer to the window, motioning for me to follow. “See the woman at the table in the middle of the room—pink dress, feathers in her hat?”

I eyed the stylish woman with high cheekbones and glowing skin. “She’s beautiful,” I said, turning back to him. “So, what’s the problem?”

He glanced back at the dining room. “I’d rather be alone forever than have a dull companion.”

I watched regret, or perhaps nostalgia, sweep across his face. “For all of its stuffiness, this really is a grand old place, isn’t it?” He leaned in closer. “Just last month, Princess Margaret sat at that table.” He pointed through the windows. “Perhaps you saw her.”

I nodded, grateful he didn’t press me for details.

“I was eight years old when we moved to London from the countryside,” he continued. “Our family was invited to a welcome lunch. Mother insisted I wear a suit, and I pitched a fit of royal proportions. As for tonight, my sister found out that I’d be meeting a group of American businessmen here, and she hoodwinked me into staying for dinner.” He smiled, and I immediately thought of Frank. “American men, they all sound like—”

“Cowboys,” we said in unison, then laughed.

Our eyes locked for a long moment, and I stifled another shiver as he extinguished the remains of his smoldering cigar on the balcony’s ledge.

“Care for a cigarette?” he asked, pulling a pack from his shirt pocket.

I’d never taken up the habit, but for some reason, I nodded anyway and a moment later we were both sending out puffs of smoke and watching them collide in the cold air.

“So, what about your date?” I asked, feeling a tinge of empathy for the woman inside.

“She’ll be fine,” he said with a shrug. “She’s been making eyes at a gentleman at the bar all evening.”

“Well, where do we go from here?” I asked, looking up at him. “It seems there’s no exit from this balcony. I guess we’re—”

“Stuck,” we both said. I quickly deflected my eyes from his gaze.

“I’m afraid so.” He pressed his cigarette between his lips again. “January’s brutal.”

I nodded. “My mum used to get the winter blues, but every day she’d watch for the promise of spring, when the first green shoots burst through the ground. She’d always say, ‘Hold on, the daffodils are coming.’?” I smiled. “I loved hearing that. I still do.” I had no idea why I was telling him this, but the words felt natural, as if I were talking to an old friend.

“That’s beautiful,” he said.