He didn’t turn his head or otherwise pay her the slightest heed at all. He kept his gaze on the king.
What was the matter with him? Surely he’d heard her. Was he ignoring her?
Hollis shifted closer to gain his attention, and her arm inadvertently bumped his. His head jerked toward her, and a bit of wine sloshed from his glass onto his shoes. He really hadn’t heard her, then. No wonder he looked at her with the expression of someone who thought they’d been accosted by a stranger.
“It appears we meet again, Mr. Brendan.”
“Oh,” he said, as if confirming his worst suspicions to himself. “It’s you.”
Well,thatseemed rather disagreeable. Hollis curtsied nonetheless, one hand on her hat. Let him see how polite society showed itself in England.
But while she was curtsying, he was shaking his fingers free of wine, and he gave her only a cursory bow of his head in return. He gestured to a footman, and put the glass of wine on the man’s tray.
“Is the wine not to your liking?”
He looked at her, those unusual amber eyes piercing hers. “I beg your pardon?”
“Thewine, sir. It seems you don’t care for it.” Or anything else, for that matter, she thought, and fluttered her fingers in the direction of the footman.
His gaze flicked over her, taking in the conical hat, the rope that rode on her hips, the long sleeves. “I’m not a connoisseur...” he said, his accent thick. “I thought it tasted a bit like dirt.”
Hollis gasped with astonishment. She wasamazedby this pronouncement. That anyone could stand in Buckingham Palace and have the gall to criticize the queen’s fine wine was beyond the pale. That this man, thisforeigner, could say such a wretched thing was remarkable in the annals of boorish behavior.“Dirt?”she very nearly shouted, her voice full of the indignation she felt on behalf of her queen.
He colored slightly; his gaze settled on something over her shoulder. “I didn’t mean it as a criticism. I beg your pardon, I meant to convey that I have no taste for dark wine.” He kept his gaze stubbornly over her shoulder, and when Hollis turned to see what had his attention, the tip of her hat knocked against his face. He grunted with surprise.
“Oh, dear... I beg your pardon, Mr. Brendan. This hat is bothersome. I don’t... Did you hear me earlier?”
“What?” He rubbed the corner of his eye, and when he did, she noticed a bead of perspiration trickling down his temple. Granted, it was dreadfully hot in the ballroom with the candles blazing all around and the heat of so many bodies, in spite of the occasional bit of cool air that passed over them through open windows. But Hollis had the distinct impression that the tiny trickle of perspiration had more to do with her than the heat. Call it a woman’s intuition, but this gentleman didn’t care for her. That was entirely plausible, too—Hollis would admit he would not be the first gentleman who didn’t care for a bored widow. Had he been any other man, at any other place, she might have been slightly wounded by this realization. But because she found him rather interesting, she was determined not to be upset. “It doesn’t appear any harm was done,” she said gaily, gesturing to his face.
“No.”
“Why do you stand here all alone, Mr. Brendan?”
He seemed surprised by the question. “Pardon?”
Should she tell him it was suspicious? That a foreigner, with no obvious acquaintances, would welcome someone to talk to?
The orchestra suddenly struck up a reel; Hollis was jostled by a troubadour and a barmaid as they scurried toward the dance floor. She glanced back at Mr. Brendan—he had pressed two fingers to his temple, as though staving off a headache. He was quite possible the only person in London who could be made miserable at a royal ball. He’d greeted her like a leper, had made a disparaging remark about the queen’s wine, and looked as if the entire affair was akin to being dragged through a crowded street by one leg.
A man dressed in a sailor’s uniform suddenly appeared and clamped a hand on Mr. Brendan’s shoulder. He leaned in close, swaying a little, and spoke in Weslorian. She didn’t speak the language, obviously, but his words sounded slurred.
The sailor gestured at Hollis. Mr. Brendan’s gaze flicked over her again, lingering perhaps a moment too long on her décolletage.“Je, mans isand,”he said.
Whatever that meant. But the sailor seemed satisfied. He slapped Mr. Brendan on the back and carried on, bouncing off the backs of people as he went, too inebriated to walk a straight line.
“Well, sir, I should think that now your friend has remarked us, an acquaintance is certainly in order. Shall we start again? I am Mrs. Honeycutt and it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
He held her gaze as he reached up and brushed the shoulder the sailor had clamped, as if erasing the whole meeting. “I know very well who you are, Mrs. Honeycutt. I beg your pardon—it’s quite loud in here and I haven’t heard every word. How do you do?” he asked in his accented English. And then he gave her a hint of a smile that had the effect of making his eyes appear even more golden.
Progress! She smiled. “Very well, Mr. Brendan.” She let out a breath she hadn’t even realized she was holding in a whoosh.“I feel as if I’ve just climbed the highest mountain in my daintiest slippers,” she added with a gay laugh. “Are you enjoying the ball, sir? Do you have costume balls in Wesloria?”
His eyebrows dipped and he leaned forward, his gaze on her mouth. “Pardon?”
“How do you find the ball?”
“Ah.” He leaned back. “Agreeable.”
Agreeable.She was beginning to see the problem here. In addition to having poor social skills, Mr. Brendan was woefully inadequate in making polite social conversation, which was exacerbated by the fact he couldn’t hear well. What on earth did this poor man do for camaraderie and diversion in Wesloria? She pictured him in a field, dressed like the shepherds of biblical times, with nothing but a lot of bleating sheep to converse with him.
