“You look amazing,” he said, his voice a tad deeper than usual.
“Do you like?” she asked, spinning for him.
Patrick cleared his throat, finding his normal voice. “Very much.”
“Good,” Linley said, slapping him on the arm with her black satin clutch. “Let’s go to dinner.”
***
Patrick’s valet, who also doubled as his driver, pulled up in front of Claridge’s. A line of other automobiles circled the block, also trying to deposit their passengers. The red brick building stretched high into the warm night air, its row of flags popping in the breeze.
A liveried doorman held the door open for them as they stepped inside. Linley did her best not to gawk at the elaborate hotel foyer. The marble floor gleamed from the lights of the chandeliers above. Everything seemed polished to perfection.
Past the entrance hall, a quick right turn brought them into the restaurant, where a piano spilled a lively melody throughout the room. Polished wood paneling covered the walls, and plush red carpet padded the floor. Linley and Patrick weaved between the round tables and giddy patrons as they made their way to their table.
“This place is really nice,” she whispered in his ear. That caused Patrick to burst into laughter, and she was certain every head in the room turned in their direction.
“Claridge’s is one of the finest hotels in the world,” he explained.
“Oh.”
The Maitre d’ showed them to their table. “Is this to your liking, my lord?”
Patrick nodded and took a seat. Linley sat opposite him, still trying not to stare.
“Do you take all your lady-friends here?” she asked.
Easing into a slow grin, Patrick shook his head. “No. Just the special ones.”
Linley grinned, too. “Then I suppose I should feel honored.”
“On the contrary,” he replied. “This is what you deserve.”
She laughed nervously and swept her napkin onto her lap.
When the waiter came, Patrick ordered champagne and oysters to start. To Linley, champagne was only for celebrating, a special treat the Talbot-Martin team could rarely afford to indulge in. By the time her melon glacé arrived, she was on her second glass.
“I’m not one to lecture,” Patrick said, “But I think you should pace yourself.”
Linley set her glass down, blushing. “You’re probably right.”
He smiled, taking a spoonful of melon ice. “I know I am.”
The entrée was cailles roties—roast quail. Between that and the fois gras, Linley wasn’t certain she’d be able to save room for dessert.
“May I ask you a question,” she asked. “One of a personal nature?”
Patrick sat his fork down and nodded.
“Who is Lady Wolstanton?”
He blinked at her. “Why do you ask?”
Suddenly, Linley’s face felt warm. She shouldn’t have asked. Now she felt foolish. “Reginald suggested that you might be…well, you know…involved with her.”
“With Lady Wolstanton?” Patrick repeated.
“That’s right.”
“Why on earth is Reginald Bourne so concerned with my love life?” he asked, bristling. “I really do not see how it is any of his business.”
Linley shifted in her seat. “He thought…he thought it should be my business.”
“I see.”
“But if you don’t want to talk about it, we don’t have to. I should never have brought it up. I should never have presumed—”
Patrick took a deep breath. “It’s all right. If your friend wants to dig up past relationships to throw in my face, he should really find something a little more recent. Lady Wolstanton and I are old news.”
“Then may I at least ask if you are seeing anyone now?”
“Don’t worry. I am quite unattached at the moment,” he said. “I would not have taken you to dinner otherwise.” He picked up his fork and knife as if he the subject was finished, but then stopped and looked back up at her. “Despite what they want you to think, I am no Don Juan running through as many women as I please.”
Linley breathed a sigh of relief. She didn’t care what Reginald or any of the others thought about Patrick. She didn’t need anyone else’s approval to know that she and Patrick shared a friendship on an entirely different level. And if Archie, or Reginald, or Schoville, or Berenice, or even her own father did not like that, they would learn to get over it.
“Kyre!” A voice called through the crowd, making Linley jump in her seat.
Patrick turned in time to see two gentlemen coming towards them, hands outstretched and faces flushed with wine. “Allard. Finchdale. Hello.”
The three men shook hands, but the newcomers’ eyes never left Linley. She immediately recognized Allard Robeson, Gaynor’s handsome brother who ignored her the night of the ball.
“Kyre, you must introduce us to this lovely lady,” Finchdale insisted.