Not one glimmer of recognition flickered in his eyes. This both abraded her vanity and surprised her not at all.
“At The Grand Palace on the Thames,” she admitted resignedly, finally. “Through... through the door.”
His head went back, then came down in a nod. “Ah. You’re the singer. ‘New to London.’”
Irony fair shimmered about those last five words. But his eyes were filled with teasing glints.
She felt the heat rush to her complexion again. “I’m afraid so.”
He hesitated.
“I fear I’m insufferable the night before I need to give a speech in the Commons.” He paused. With a rueful ghost of a smile he added, “And at most times in between.”
She suspected this was his version of an apology. And was in all likelihood true.
She thankfully managed not to say this out loud.
“Well. Goodness knows I deserved to be thoroughly castigated for singing,” she replied humbly.
He fixed her with an amused, speculative look, clearly aware she was taking the piss.
“‘Castigated,’” he repeated, approvingly, as if she’d just handed him a glass of wine of a surprisingly good vintage.
She couldn’t help it: she smiled again. And so did he.
“So, Keating. Why are you out here instead of inside dancing and gossiping?”
“Keating,” not “Miss Keating.” As if she were a fellow MP whose back he might chummily pat. A coconspirator. Like everything about this man so far, “Keating” irritated her and she liked it almost too much.
But the question rendered her mute. The concerns milling about in her head like sheep without a dog would no doubt bore him. She was hardly a raconteur.
But there he was waiting, his hopes no doubt pinned on her ability to divert him again, and the notion of seeing disappointment flicker in his eyes for some reason made her palms sweat.
“I—it’s—it seems my dress is wrong.”
Of all the thoughts to escape from her mouth. She felt like an utter cake.
His eyes flared warily. His brows met in confusion.
Her face went warm.
He swept her person with an information-seeking glance that seemed to have nothing of prurience in it, and then returned an unreadable gaze to hers. She was mordantly amused he didn’t attempt to disabuse her of the notion. Oddly, it made him seem more trustworthy.
“Someone said something that led you to this conclusion,” he guessed finally.
She cleared her throat. “A somewhat offhand remark was made about my sleeves and... I inferred. I confess it didn’t occur to me that it would matter very much. This dress is only two years old.” She absently smoothed her palms along her skirt. “I hadn’t time to get new ones before the season, as the opportunity came on rather suddenly, and I hadn’t the budget for it... I’ve always been assured that... that blue is my color,” she concluded, rather absurdly. She could feel her blush traveling. Surely her entire torso was pink by now.
“Mmm.” He nodded, sympathetically. “I suspect there’s a shortage of French modistes in Upper Sheep’s Teat, Northumberland, or wherever it is you hail from.”
She didn’t even blink. She was getting a sense of him now.
“It’s Nether Sheep’s Teat, but please don’t be embarrassed, Lord Kirke. Everyone always confuses the two.”
He smiled again. She was beginning to feel a bit like Icarus, taking that fatal mad leap again and again in order to see that smile. This conversation seemed to hold equal potential for disaster and rewards.
“It’s called Little Bramble,” she expounded, somewhat meekly. “My town.”
“Of course it is,” he humored.