He paused. Gathering his thoughts. That didn’t bode well. When folks had to gather their thoughts, it usually meant they were scrambling around for the nicest way to say something rotten.
“In recent days,” Penrose said, “or, really, not precisely in recent days, but beginning in Germany, when and where I first made your acquaintance, but particularly in recent days, we have, at any rate, I believe we have, ah, become something of—well, we have formed a bit of a friendship. Have we not?”
“I reckon so. Yes.”
“I am glad we are in agreement on that point. Now, there are certainly those who would argue that a lady and a gentleman cannot and indeed, by rights ought not, form friendships. In particular, young, unmarried ladies and unattached gentlemen.”
“Unattached gentlemen? What about Miss Ivy Banks?”
“That is precisely it, Miss Flax. Precisely. It is with these social reservations, as it were, that I—”
“Hold it right there, Professor.” Ophelia steadied the wobble in her throat. “I see where you’re headed.”
“You do?”
“You’re about to remind me of Miss Banks. I don’t require a reminder.”
“Yes. I have a confession to make. You see, I admit that there was some truth in what I said about Miss Banks. My mother, for instance, wishes me to marry a lady of a certain . . . well, for lack of a better term, of a certain class.”
Ophelia’s heart frosted over.
“And Miss Banks is the very epitome of the lady I ought to marry. Do you understand what I am saying, Miss Flax?”
“You’re saying we ought not be friends anymore. I couldn’t agree more. You can have your Latin-spouting, fossil-digging, retiring lady and her perfect handwriting, because I don’t give a hoot or a holler.” Ophelia spun around and grabbed handfuls of slippery silken skirts. She ran up the stairs to the terrace, nearly losing her left slipper along the way.
*
Ophelia pushed into the ballroom and made tracks to the champagne table. The crowd was thick, the orchestra sounded shrill, and guests chattered and elbowed.
Why must the professor so cruelly rub her nose in things? Or was he only being honest?
Ophelia didn’t know. She only needed to patch up this jagged wound. She wasn’t a tippling lady, but there had to be some reason folks turned to tiddly when the times got rough. She reached for a glass of champagne. Thick, gloved fingers whisked it away. She opened her mouth to give someone a piece of her mind.
“Mademoiselle Stonewall,” Griffe said over the din of flutes and oboes, “how is it that la plus belle, the most beautiful lady, is also the one with the so-sad face?” He passed the glass to her. “Come, ma chérie. Drink. It will do you good, eh? What has happened to your shoulder?”
The mechanical bear-claw marks showed on Ophelia’s bare shoulder. “Cat scratch.”
“Ah. What an enormous cat it must have been.”
Ophelia drank the champagne down like water and held out her empty glass for more.
Griffe refilled her glass, tucked her arm in his, and led her out onto the terrace.
Ophelia scanned the gardens below. No sign of Penrose. Probably off composing a love sonnet to you-know-who.
“Deserve to have each other. Prigs,” she muttered.
“Pardonnez-moi?”
“Did I speak aloud?” Ophelia looked into her empty glass.
“It is perhaps, mademoiselle, that you are unsettled by the crush. Perhaps they do not have such balls in Ohio, in the Cleveland?”
“Something like that.” The champagne had already peeled off a layer of care. “I’m feeling much better, as a matter of fact.” Griffe really was nice, in a burly, furry fashion. He was like one of those alpine rescue dogs who carried little casks of brandy around their necks.
“Better, eh? Then perhaps I shall take the opportunity to ask you an important question.”
Oh.
“You must be aware, Mademoiselle Stonewall, how taken I am by you. How enchanted. You are a prize among women, a flower, a gem, a pearl, an angel—”