Page 48 of Cross My Heart
“You mean, basking in adoration,” I correct him. “And giving the occasional seminar. It’s hardly backbreaking work.”
“Now, you’re beginning to sound like my parents,” Saint grins. “Who are around here somewhere, unfortunately.”
“They are?” I feel a shot of nerves, which is crazy, I know. I’m not some eager girlfriend, anxious to meet the parents, I remind myself. This thing with Saint is just… Fun. A welcome distraction, while I dig to find out what happened to Wren here that night.
“Does Max ever have parties here?” I ask carefully. “It seems like a great place to throw a rager.”
“Sometimes,” Saint begins to reply, but before he can say anything else, we’re interrupted by a tall, elegant woman in her fifties with a long, aquiline nose and a massive pair of diamond earrings.
“Anthony! Darling.”
“Bitsy,” Saint politely accepts her air kisses, “You’re looking lovely as ever. Henry better be wielding that croquet mallet to beat away your admirers.”
Bitsy titters with laughter. “Aren’t you sweet?” She looks to me, curious, and Saint introduces us. “Charmed. Is your mummy around?” Bitsy asks him. “We need to start planning the horticultural society events for spring.”
“I’m sure she’s around here somewhere,” Saint says. “But you’ll have to work to top last year’s ‘Salute to the Tulip.’ The displays were stunning.”
“Thank you,” she beams, before moving off.
“Friend of yours?” I ask, amused.
“One of my godmothers,” he replies. “And if you think she didn’t spend all my college years trying to set me up with her drippy daughters, you weren’t the one sitting through a dozen bad dates. Luckily they’re all married off by now,” he adds, nodding to where three women with matching noses and loud floral prints are going to war on the croquet field. “And Bitsy’s accepted that I’m the last man on earth anyone should be marrying.”
“You are getting old,” I say, teasing. “What’s the male word for spinster?”
“Eligible bachelor,” Saint quips, and I laugh.
But it turns out not to be a joke. As we move through the party, Saint is intercepted a dozen times, by attractive women, and older people too. And every one of them looks disappointed to find out that he brought me as a date. But Saint doesn’t skip a beat, he schmoozes like a pro, making small talk and in-jokes with everyone and keeping a polite smile on his face. Despite talking like he can’t stand these society events, he seems a natural.
“Nobody would ever guess you hate these things,” I comment, as we browse a groaning dessert table for snacks. “I hardly recognize you without all the seductive flirting.”
“Oh, I’m just storing it up for later,” he promises, resting his hand low on my back. He leans in to murmur in my ear. “Like the fact I’m desperate to know what kind of panties you’re wearing under that skirt.”
“Who says I’m wearing any?” I reply, with a smirk.
He sounds a low noise of frustration, as we’re intercepted—again. This time, it’s an older gentleman in pale linen, with a slim wisp of a woman on his arm. “Saint, how are you?” the man says, taking Saint’s outstretched hand and pumping it vigorously. “Exciting stuff afoot with Ashford Pharma, I hear. I might just have to buy some more stock, if the rumors about your new miracle drug are to be believed.”
“You’ll have to talk to my father about that,” Saint says smoothly. “Or my brother, Robert. He’s around here somewhere.”
“Did you hear about Arnold Pottinger’s new disaster,” the man continues, barely giving me a glance. But his partner does, looking me up and down with a thin-lipped smile, like she’s been sucking on lemons.
“What did you say your name was?” she asks, as the men keep talking.
“Tessa Peterson, hi.”
“Peterson.” The smile warms for a moment. “Is that the Rhode Island shipping Petersons?”
“Nope,” I say brightly. “The Bolingbridge Petersons.”
“Oh.”
Luckily, I’m rescued by Imogen, appearing suddenly at my side. She’s looking polished as ever in a chic lilac shift dress, with her blonde hair pinned back in a French braid. “Lucille,” she coos to the woman. “You don’t mind if I steal Tessa here for a moment. Lovely to see you!”
With a firm hand on my arm, she steers me away.
“Thank you,” I breathe, relieved. “I was about to give her a heart attack explaining that my parents are public school teachers.”
Imogen laughs. “This crowd can be… traditional. Everyone knows everyone else,” she explains. “And to gain entry into this world, you have to be massively wealthy, well-connected, or a fashion model third wife,” she adds, dropping her voice as we pass two men who must be pushing seventy, braying loudly as their stunning twenty-something wives stand around, looking bored.