“You asked for a touch of divine intervention?”
She reached up and made short shrift of setting her tiara to rights. “I’m sure you would have done exactly that if you’d been facing a gruesome demise.”
“Perhaps, but . . .” He paused and caught her eye. “I must admit I can’t recall a single time anyone’s ever admitted to asking for divine intervention in the midst of a society event.”
Pursing her lips, she seemed to think about that for a long moment. “I suppose you’re right about that, Mr. Rutherford. But don’t you find it somewhat peculiar that when people gather, say, at church, matters of divine intervention are expected, but when they gather outside of places specifically relegated as places of worship, the topic of God or anything relating to Him seems to become rather uncomfortable?”
“I would imagine that’s because people are cautious, especially members of New York society, about offending those within their social circles. And talk of religion—along with politics, of course—can be a somewhat slippery slope to navigate.”
Miss Griswold’s eyes widened. “Ah, I imagine that’s exactly what my stepmother was trying to warn me about a month or so ago when we were discussing my appalling lack of conversation savviness.”
She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “You may very well find this to be surprising, but I’m apparently woefully deficient when it comes to conversing well with members of polite society. Truth be told, more often than not, I find myself completely tongue-tied whenever in the midst of the more fashionable set, and if I’m not tongue-tied, I seem to always broach a subject that would be best left not broached.”
Asher lowered his voice as well. “May I assume then, especially since I’ve not experienced the whole tongue-tied business when I’ve been in your company, that you don’t find me worthy to be considered a member of the fashionable set?”
“Don’t be absurd, Mr. Rutherford. You own what is certain to become the most fashionable store in the city. If you’re not considered a member of the fashionable set, I don’t know who is.”
With that, Miss Griswold pushed herself to her feet, seemingly unconcerned with the notion that young ladies were expected to allow a gentleman—if one was available, which he certainly was—to assist them to their feet after they’d taken a nasty plummet to the ground.
Deciding Miss Griswold would most certainly not appreciate recommendations of the etiquette sort, especially from him, the gentleman who was responsible for her nasty plummet to the ground the second time, Asher began rising to his feet as well. A second later, he found himself taken aback when Miss Griswold thrust a dainty hand his way, seemingly unconcerned yet again with the idea that ladies never, as in ever, initiated an act that would consist of them hauling a gentleman to his feet.
Not wanting to offend her, and also not wanting to draw more attention than they were already drawing, Asher took the hand and soon found himself standing right beside her.
“Quite frankly . . .” she began when he found his feet, “now that I consider the matter, it is rather curious that I’m able to speak freely with you.” With that, along with a nod, she began dusting him off in a remarkably no-nonsense sort of manner.
The feel of her hands brushing, patting, and smoothing him out took him by such surprise that he found himself at a complete loss for words. He simply stood still as a statue while she continued her dusting, finally finishing her task when she plucked a few leaves from the billowing sleeves of his costume.
“There, you’re looking dashing again, which further establishes the idea you’re a most fashionable sort, especially considering . . .” She stepped back and gave him a quick once-over. “No one but a fashionable gentleman would dare step outside his house these days wearing . . .” She gestured to his costume, her gaze lingering on the purple frock coat that just happened to be trimmed with gold braiding. “Well, all that.”
His eyes narrowed as he tried to discern whether or not she’d just insulted him. “I’ve seen many a gentleman this evening dressed far more outlandishly than I’m dressed.”
“Indeed, as have I. But they, Mr. Rutherford, aren’t nearly as adept at pulling off the look—yet another clear indicator that you are, indeed, a staunch member of the fashionably elite.”
“I suppose this is where I’m expected to say thank you?”
Her brows drew together. “There’s certainly no need for that, since I was merely confirming what you along with everyone else in society knows. You’re a well-established member of the stylish set, which—” she blew out a breath—“truly does make it a bit of a puzzle that I’m able to speak so freely around you.”
“Do I remind you of someone you’re close to? Your father, perhaps?”