drinking sherry. They perched on armchairs, chaises and sofas around a
cheerfully crackling fireplace with an attractive brick hearth.
“Would you like a glass of wine?” Wilder asked, indicating a tray set on a small table near the door.
Between the pain and the tight lacing, she felt dizzy enough already, so she
shook her head.
Christopher appeared seemingly out of nowhere and took her arm. “Good
evening, Miss Valentino.”
For a heartbeat, she forgot her misery as his handsome face captured her awareness, driving pain and fear back and causing a welling-up of warmth and
pleasure in the vicinity of her heart. “Good evening.”
“Am I still in your bad graces?” he asked sheepishly.
"You never were,” she replied. She bit her lip, remembering the sweet kiss…
kisses she'd allowed him to press on her lips. Allowed, bah. You encouraged him.
Her cheeks burned but she met his eyes, trying to tell him without words that his
ardor had not been the source of her retreat. If only shyness were truly the problem.
“Good to hear.” He grinned and her heart turned over. “I missed walking
with you.”
“I was… unwell,” she explained, deliberately being vague.
His eyes darkened. “Unwell, my dear? I'm sorry to hear it. Are you better now?”
“Somewhat.” She changed the subject. “So what does one do at these
parties? I admit to finding your description intriguing.”
“Well,” he led her to an unoccupied settee and perched her there, sitting beside her and clasping her hand. “First, we act as though this were a normal party, conversing, gossiping, drinking and all.” He suddenly seemed to notice her empty hand. “You don't have a drink.” He seemed about to request one for
her.
She laid her free hand on top of his, arresting his attention, and said, “I don't
feel like it tonight.”
His eyes roved over her face, considering. At last, he replied, “Very well,”
and then returned to the explanation. “Shortly we'll have dinner, quite a good dinner I might add. It's not until after we eat that the dark events begin to take
place.” His eyes sparkled with mischief. “It's an orgy of words, my dear. Women
have been known to swoon.”
Katerina rolled her eyes, although as bad as she felt, it wouldn't take much to
loosen her grip on consciousness.
“Come on,” a tipsy gentleman shouted from a burgundy armchair in the
corner, “I'm bored. Can't we start the reading before dinner for once?”
“Now, now, Mr. Reardon,” a lovely woman who appeared to be about thirty
approached the gentleman and patted his arm, “It's our custom to wait.”
He continued to grouse. “But there's no new gossip this week. Nothing at all.
The conversation is getting stale in here.”
“That's your cravat, not the conversation,” a much younger man with sandy
hair and a naughty twinkle in his hazel eyes teased the malcontent.
The drunk colored and subsided.
“Well, he's not wrong,” another lady, this one a gorgeous blond with a
