“My pleasure,” Elias said, already composed again. He had heard of Blackstone. Blackstone wouldn’t have heard of him.
There were perhaps thirty people in the reception room. A musical quartet played soft classical tunes in one corner, and the sweet fragrance of hothouse roses wafted over from antique vases. A painting depicting the abduction of Persephone took up the wall above the fireplace and presided over a notably animated group of guests. The blond Lady Lucinda was part of the group, but a woman in blue with severe hair was nowhere in sight. He imagined Catriona’s face, should she find out about his past dealings thanks to Blackstone tonight, and an emotion tightened his chest. It felt suspiciously like guilt. He had nothing to feel guilty about. Wester Ross had absconded to sell his land before Elias could disclose his perfectly honorable intentions to him.
“The champagne is from the Montagne de Reims,” Mr. Blackstone said, his pronunciation terrible. “Do you reside in France by any chance, Mr. Khoury?”
Elias met the sharp gray gaze over the rim of his glass. “No. I’m based in Beirut.”
“It’s a booming city, I understand.”
“It is.”
“Mrs. Blackstone says you’re an expert on artifacts?”
“She’s too gracious,” Elias replied. “I understand you deal in antiques?”
Blackstone’s face remained a mask. “Not in years. My wife showed me the error of my ways over a pair of Han vases. My interest is in modern British paintings now. You’re welcome to visit my gallery in Chelsea.”
“I look forward to it.”
“Good, good. Ah, there she is.”
Mrs. Blackstone’s curly red head had appeared at the door. Next to her was Catriona. Elias lowered his champagne goblet before it met his lips. She wore red. A deep, rich shade of claret that appeared almost black. The velvet hugged her figure as seamlessly as though she had been poured into the fabric. A stiff little collar closed snugly around her neck, but the bodice had a cutout that exposed a generous triangle of smooth skin from the hollow of her throat to the tops of her breasts. Heat licked over the surface of his chest. Their eyes met in a flash of raw appraisal, and her composed posture quavered.
Mrs. Blackstone tugged her toward the men, chattering about a kerfuffle in the kitchen.
“Do have another drink or two, and some fruit,” she urged Elias, a hand on his sleeve. “Goodness, at this rate we’ll all be sozzled before the first course.” She touched her husband’s arm. “Dear, a word?”
The pair moved over to the sideboard.
Elias turned to Catriona just as she faced him, and his shoulders loomed over hers. He couldn’t bring himself to step back. Her dark hair was gathered up in a pile of soft ringlets, and a curl had come loose and grazed her left cheekbone. The flower-scented air suddenly felt heavy in his lungs. Her breasts were rising and falling rather rapidly against the velvety neckline, too. He dragged his gaze up again and was met with another surprise.
“Golden glasses,” he said huskily.
She touched a fingertip to the delicate earpiece. “Indeed,” she said primly, but her chest turned pink. “Shall we join the others?” she asked, her gloved hands moving nervously over the front of her gown. The group near the fireplace was perusing them with not-so-covert glances.
“Certainly.” He offered his arm.
She hesitated before placing her hand on him. It settled on his arm light as a bird, but her touch resonated through his body, distracting him from the introductions.
“Have you written down your observations from the drill?” Lady Lucinda asked him, her clear gray eyes moving over him with friendly interest. She stood improperly close to her fiancé, Lord Ballentine, a tall, red-haired viscount who exuded deviance despite his perfectly polished appearance. An Irishwoman with cropped curls, Miss Byrne, kept her arm linked with an angelic-looking blonde—Miss Patterson—and she made good-natured complaints about the delay of the food. The Duchess of Montgomery, a remarkably beautiful woman who appeared to be unaccompanied, wanted to know more about his research, what he had read at Cambridge. He told her he had read archaeology and ancient history.
The duchess’s green eyes lit with interest. “You studied under Professor Babington, then.”
“I did,” he confirmed. “He’s a friend of Professor Pappas, an acquaintance of mine in Beirut.”
Catriona had taken her place in the circle and added nothing to the conversation now that she had introduced him. She could have been radiant, with her red gown and lustrous black curls. Women commanded a room with less. Yet her presence was barely felt. She had folded herself up as tightly as a jasmine blossom after sunrise.
“I once had a fascination with Greek pottery,” the duchess said, and a private smile tugged at her lips. “Is pottery your field of interest?”
It wasn’t. Cambridge had been a chance opportunity entirely. He had been sent to Britain with Nassim to establish the family office at Manchester Port instead of causing trouble on the mountain. Once in Manchester, he had soon realized that if his family wished to do business with the British, he had to associate with the upper classes. Oxbridge seemed like an effective inroad into otherwise inaccessible circles, because neither his family’s wealth nor his noble pedigree rolled out a red carpet for him on this island. An adolescence spent assisting the French archaeologists in Jbeil as a translator and his connection to Professor Pappas had allowed him to enroll under Babington’s tutelage. For a time, shared lodgings and lectures were a good enough equalizer for young gentlemen from different backgrounds. He had been invited to grand homes where he had learned more about English mannerisms and values during debauched costume parties than a cultural handbook could have ever taught him. Too soon, Uncle Jabbar had found out that he had abandoned post without permission, and halfway through the second year, Elias had found himself in the office in Lyon.
“We shall have hors d’oeuvres in a moment,” Mrs. Blackstone announced. She had arrived with two fair-haired young gentlemen, one on each arm. With rosy cheeks and high foreheads, the chaps were precisely the type of company Elias had kept at Cambridge. Their confident bearing implied that they were well-acquainted with everyone in the group.
“May I introduce Mr. Tomlinson and Lord Palmer,” Mrs. Blackstone said to him. “Mr. Khoury is our guest of honor from Mount Lebanon.”
Lord Palmer’s finely drawn face brightened. “From Mount Lebanon,” he exclaimed, making heads turn in their direction. “An ally from distant lands. To your health.”
He raised his goblet. Judging by his shiny eyes, he had already toasted to enough people’s health this evening to cure many ailments in England.
Elias tipped his glass toward his. “And to yours. As it is, London is allied to the other party.”