Shadow's Edge

13

Jenna ground her teeth together and exchanged glances with Becky. “I thought we weren’t using the first names of the clientele, Geoffrey? Because you think it’s ‘très gauche’?”

Next to Jenna’s elbow, Geoffrey practically vibrated with smothered apoplexy.

“Earl is not his name, you twit, it’s his title!” he spat. “The concierge from the Four Seasons called in the reservation! He’s an aristocrat, for God’s sake!”

Before she could catch herself, Jenna’s gaze flew up to the mirror. Across the restaurant, the earl was studying the wine list—brows stern, face neutral—but she sensed the stifled laughter yearning to break free from his full lips, which were pressed together with firm intent.

“You may refer to him as Your Grace or Your Majesty, but either way, be professional, be smiling, and be gone!”

He flapped his hands at her and made shooing noises, as if she were a pigeon begging for crumbs on a park bench.

Jenna didn’t budge.

“One does not refer to an earl as Your Grace, Geoffrey, nor does one call him Your Majesty. Those titles are reserved for a duke and a king, respectively,” she said coolly, looking down on his balding head. Geoffrey’s mouth formed a startled, moist O, but he didn’t reply. He did begin to blink quite rapidly, however. Becky coughed into her hand to hide her laugh and turned away.

In addition to the enjoyment of fine wine, Mrs. Colfax had taught Jenna a few other things about high society.

“I will call him Lord McLoughlin or sir, as is proper etiquette, unless he asks me to call him by his first name, whatever that may be, as it would be ‘très gauche’ to continue on with the ridiculous business of titles after that.”

Jenna enjoyed the mottled shade of crimson that stained Geoffrey’s cheeks. She turned on her heel and walked without hurry across the restaurant and over to the table that housed Lord McLoughlin, trying all the while to force the blood back out of her own cheeks and keep her breathing even.

The earl didn’t look up from the wine list as she paused at the edge of the table. For one swift moment she allowed her gaze to linger on the long, tapered fingers that held the leather-bound book. They were tanned, strong, and elegant, like the rest of him.

A fine, humming current took up residence in her abdomen.

“Lord McLoughlin,” she said, raising her eyes to his handsome face. “Welcome to Mélisse. How may I be of service?”

With a smooth motion of his arm, he lowered the wine list to the table, then met her gaze. He smiled—a true smile, admiring—and the din of the restaurant seemed to recede abruptly into a bank of muffled fog, leaving the two of them alone together.

“Please, call me Leander.”

That voice like velvet, sending a wash of honeyed warmth throughout her body. The glossy fringe of his hair was longer than she remembered, almost brushing the tops of his shoulders, thick and shining jet. The barest hint of stubble glinted copper along his jaw.

Tell me you want me...

“Leander,” Jenna repeated, liking the way his name felt on her tongue.

Impossible, she thought. Too far away. But still...

She tilted her head and gave him a sidelong look from under her lashes. “Not Your Grace? Your Highness?” she said lightly, testing him.

His answering smile was proof enough, but his words were total confirmation.

“Why bother with the ridiculous business of titles? It’s all so...” He snapped his fingers, searching for a word. “Gauche. Très gauche, in fact...wouldn’t you agree?”

He leaned forward over the table, steepled his fingertips under his chin, and held her gaze. For one brief moment she imagined he heard her heart pounding in her chest.

“Quite,” she replied, her mind working furiously.

How did he hear the conversation with Geoffrey? How was that possible? They had been a hundred feet away...at least. And whispering.

Her stomach turned over with a twinge of intuition she promptly ignored. There was no one else who could do what she did; no one she’d ever met had those kinds of sensory gifts. He was just another man.

And her mother’s cryptic warnings...well, her mother used to drink a lot.

She pushed a stray tendril of hair away from her cheek with the back of her hand and motioned toward the wine list. “May I assist you with a wine selection, Leander?” she said smoothly. “Do you see anything you like?”

Why had he been staring at her at the store? Had he been staring at her? What was he doing here? Was she just crazy—was the whole thing her imagination?

His smile deepened, dimpling his cheeks. “Why, yes, Miss...?” he lifted his eyebrows, waiting.

“Jenna,” she replied.

“Jenna,” he repeated slowly. His intense gaze flickered over her figure, once. It came back to rest on her face and a muscle in his jaw twitched. “Yes, I do believe there is something I like.”

Under the proper English accent, Jenna detected a slight cadence to his voice, something lilting and familiar, a nuance she couldn’t place. The way he was looking at her made her stomach do something strange.