stood there, damn his hide, looking down his nose at her.
“Are you sure you don’t want some assistance?” he asked, reaching for her again.
“I’ve got it.” Finally she managed to stand.
“My father would like to speak to you if you can follow me,” he said when the silence stretched on for what seemed an eternity.
“I would love to see him,” she replied.
“Right this way.”
She made sure to stay by his side. None of this two-steps-behind-richer-than-sin-monarchs crap for her. She’d prefer to walk ahead, actually, but she had no idea where they were going until they approached the large doors of what probably counted as the den — though who knew what these snooty people called it? No, it was probably the sitting room, or the parlor, because weren’t dens smaller? And this room wasn’t small. But it was still Whitney’s favorite room of the house, warm and cozy and with furniture that was actually comfortable. You couldn’t say that for most of the rest of this gloomy mansion.
When she and Liam walked inside, Whitney stopped dead, because a large group of people were sitting and chatting, and dressed to the nines. For just a moment she felt a trace of insecurity as she stood there in her sweater and jeans. But that was until she reminded herself that these people now looking at her in a most disapproving way would be nothing but memories in a very short time. They could all lead their incredibly boring, proper lives, and she could enjoy her freedom.
“Liam, where have you been hiding?” A woman looking to be in her mid-twenties — Whitney’s age, in fact, but clearly from another universe — rose quickly from her chair and rushed over. She gave Liam a chaste kiss and then returned to her seat, where she seemed to be holding court in the room full of people.
“Alexandra, I’m sorry,” he said coolly. “I didn’t realize we had guests.”
“How could you forget, darling? We’re supposed to be discussing the spring benefit for the opera.”
His gaze flicked upward, but the move was almost imperceptible. “You know I don’t get involved with that sort of thing,” he told her.
“I thought things were different now.”
The woman’s whine grated on Whitney’s nerves. But this blue blood was ignoring her presence completely, so maybe she could slip back out of the room unnoticed. She’d find Frederick later.
No such luck. Liam turned back toward Whitney, and much to her distress, she felt a little leap in her pulse as his sharp blue eyes focused on her. After his almost nonstop rudeness, she didn’t understand that leap at all.
“This is Whitney Steele. She’s the maternal aunt of my niece and nephew — I spoke of them earlier in the week. Whitney, this is Alexandra Masterson.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Alexandra,” Whitney said, sticking out her hand.
The woman ignored the gesture and turned back toward Liam. “Let’s go talk privately.”
Before Whitney knew what was happening, Liam and Alexandra disappeared, and the chatting began again in the room, though of course it didn’t include her. She wasn’t sure if she should retreat or sit. Where was Frederick? Wasn’t he supposed to be meeting her?
Before she could decide what to do, Liam returned and, without even asking for her permission, he took her elbow and led her to a chair. Immediately, a maid offered her tea or coffee. Whitney chose tea.
The people were all so proper —hell, tight-assed was the way to describe it — and she found herself sitting there uncomfortably. Alexandra seemed to have a constant pout on her face while shooting Whitney a questioning look every once in a while. Who would want to associate with these people? To tell the truth, who would ever care to be around these idiots?
“Here are your finger sandwiches, sir,” said Mr. Dixon while setting down a beautiful dish on the antique table near Liam and Whitney before going to other groups in the room and placing