And God. He hadn’t realized how unnervingly liberating it was to speak to someone that way.
Keating had got hold of some thread of his being, and had walked away with it, and now, somehow, he had the sense that he was unraveling. He had no idea who or what would be left when this was done.
He’d lit a cheroot to have something to do, because she wasn’t here. He had seen her dancing with Lord Vaughn as he went up the stairs.
They’d made a beautiful couple.
He closed his eyes, as if they were in front of him right now.
He aimed a stream of smoke at the ceiling and noticed, uneasily, how lonely it was to be alone now, when before it had only been a relief.
On his way back to the ballroom, he veered past the refreshments table, aiming to join a few MPs over in the corner, when a splash of bold yellow color out of the corner of his eye stopped him short near an arrangement of ferns. His heart kicked.
But Keating wasn’t hiding, thankfully; her expression was bright and alert, as though she was expecting someone to collect her for the next dance.
Despite himself, he was fiercely pleased that she seemed happy.
Before he could move swiftly on, she turned around as surely as though he’d tapped her on the shoulder.
And her face illuminated like a lamp.
“Lord Kirke! You’re here! I didn’t know you’d be here, too!” She sounded almost giddy.
He eyed her cautiously, as this was not the sort of reception he’d been expecting after their last conversation.
“Good evening, Keating,” he said politely.
“I’m just waiting for Mr....” She glanced at her dance card. “Barret. Mr. Barret and I will be dancing!”
He frowned faintly. If he was not mistaken, Keating wasun peufoxed.
She beamed back at him. Shewasclutching a cup of ratafia.
“Excellent. Mr. Barret is a fine fellow. You’re vivid tonight in that flattering shade of goldenrod.” He knew he couldn’t risk lingering here to speak to her.
“Goldenrrrrod,” she repeated, rolling her “r” extravagantly in a perfect imitation of his Welsh accent.
He blinked, taken aback.
“I wish my name was Rowena, or Rebecca,” she said wistfully.
“How much ratafia have you had?”
“I wish my name was Ratafia,” she replied, mournfully.
He stifled a laugh. “Quite a lot, apparently.”
“Because your ‘r’s’ are so pretty,” she said, again wistfully. “They roll like the hills. Rrrrrollll like the hillllls.”
“I’ll just take that, shall I?” He divested her of her cup.
Whereupon she went very serious. “Say my name.”
“Keating,” he indulged.
“My name is Catherine.”
“I recall.”