My stomach clenched. My heart rate increased. Despite the cool temperatures outside, I felt overly warm. I tried to convince myself that I wasn’t nervous about representing the museum amid all this wealth and privilege even though I totally was.
“Isn’t it Earl of Whitmore?” Bri asked.
“Not in this case,” Tristan said. “If the title comes with property than he’s “earl of” but in this situation the title is attached to a surname, same with the viscount. His is a lesser title, but he’ll be the earl one day.”
My head was spinning. I knew we were supposed to call them something but what was it? I felt a bead of sweat slid down my neck. I leaned toward Tristan and asked, “What do we call them? Sir? Your grace?”
“Your highness?” Bri asked.
Tristan smiled at us. “Breathe, ladies. They’re not that high in the instep, I promise. You can call them “my lord” or “sir”.”
Right. Because that felt totally normal.
“Ah, here they are,” Tristan said. He waved to an older man, who was tall and thin and moved across the terrace gingerly with the assistance of a cane as if he’d recently been injured. His eyes were a bright blue, and he had a thick head of silver hair. He was exactly what I would have expected an earl to look like—very distinguished.
I leaned close to Bri and whispered, “Are we supposed to curtsy?”
“I don’t know.” She seemed panicked and murmured the same question to Tristan. He smiled and shook his head.
“They’re not the royal family, and they don’t stand on ceremony,” he said. “A simple bob, if you’d like, will do.”
“Bob?” I asked. Yes, terror had completely blanked my brain. “Who’s Bob?”
“I don’t know!” Bri cried. She turned to Tristan, who was laughing at us.
“Bob the verb not the proper noun,” Tristan said. He was grinning as he demonstrated, putting his right foot back and bending his knees.
“Oh,” Bri and I said together. I will claim my momentary stupidity was due to nerves until my dying breath.
“Why so formal, Tristan?” The earl had reached us. “A handshake will do, lad.”
“Eeep!” Bri exclaimed in fright, and the same anxious jitters traveled through me all the way to the soles of my feet.
Tristan straightened up with a laugh that Bri and I didn’t share. This was terrifying. Tristan steadied Bri with a hand on her elbow. I felt a flash of envy that I didn’t have Al here to do the same for me.
“Lord Whitmore.” Tristan took the man’s extended hand in a quick clasp. He then gestured to Briana, and me. “I’d like to introduce Ms. Briana Cho and Ms. Molly Graham from the Museum of Literature in New York.”
We bobbed together and the earl smiled. It made him look younger and much more approachable.
“Charmed,” he said. He shook both of our hands. “I’m delighted you could join us today. And this is my grandson, Lord Insley.”
He turned to the side, and I noticed the man who had followed him onto the terrace for the first time. Tall, broad-shouldered, and with a head of dark wavy hair that flopped over his forehead just so. I could feel its softness under my fingers and the memory sent me reeling. How many times had I smoothed it back from his eyes during our adventures in New York?
“Albert?” I gasped.
There he was standing right in front of me with his bright blue eyes and slightly wonky tooth giving him a crooked smile. I couldn’t believe it. He was here. He was a viscount!
“Hello, Molly,” he said.
I gaped at him, and my brain burst into flames. I couldn’t speak. Instead, as if it had been scripted, everything went gray, and I started to see spots. The next thing I knew the terrace floor was coming to greet me.
Chapter Eight
“Jamie, why did Molly call you Albert?” Tristan asked.
I had the sensation of being carried, but I didn’t open my eyes. If this whole thing was a dream and Albert wasn’t actually here, I didn’t want to know.
“Right, long story that. Can you get the door, please?”
My breath caught. It was Albert. I’d know that voice anywhere, especially as it rumbled right over my head, which was tucked up under his chin. So, I supposed the bigger question was who was this Jamie person...er...Lord Insley...and oh, my god, I had fainted and he was carrying me like some damsel in distress. This was utterly mortifying.
I felt myself being gently lowered onto a hard sofa. I immediately missed Albert’s warmth and familiar scent. I still didn’t open my eyes.
“Is she breathing?” Bri asked. Her fingers pressed my wrist to take my pulse.
“She appears to be,” Al said. He sounded concerned. “I’ll call a doctor.”
My eyes snapped open. Nope, nope, nope. This was humiliating enough without inconveniencing a doctor.
“I’m all right. I’m all right.” I said it once and then again in case there were any doubters and then one more time for myself. “I’m all right.”
“Molly, you scared the snot out of me,” Bri said. She had her hand on her chest as if checking her own heartbeat. “What happened? Jet lag? Dehydration? Anxiety?”
“All of that,” I said. I kept my gaze on her not daring to look at Al for fear that I might swoon again. Swoon? Me? It was preposterous but there it was. “I just need a minute to collect myself. I’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure?” Bri asked. “You could skip lunch and rest in your room. No one would blame you.”
“I’d blame me,” I said. “We’re here representing the museum. I can’t let Director Macintosh or the board down.”
“We have a week of activities,” Bri countered. “One lunch won’t make a bit of difference.”
“First impressions—” I said but Tristan interrupted me.
“Yours was unforgettable if that’s what you were going for,” he teased.
I sighed. “I was, but not in that way.” I rolled up to a seated position, trying to get my equilibrium back.
“Molly, I can escort you to your room if you’d like,” Al offered.
Both Bri and Tristan looked at him and then at me in surprise. It was clear from Al’s familiarity that we knew each other.
“That’s not necessary,” I said. My tone was frosty but not nearly as cold as I’d gotten while I waited for him outside the Met.
“Molly, won’t you look at me?” he asked.
His voice was as tender as it had been after our first night together. I refused to let it weaken me. There was absolutely nothing he could say that I wanted to hear. Not now. Not ever.
“We should really get back,” I said. I glanced at Tristan. “Please thank the viscount for his assistance.” I practically spat the title.
“Jamie, what the bloody hell is going on?” Tristan asked. “Do you and Molly know each other?”
“It’s personal,” Al said. His voice was measured and careful, which infuriated me.
“Personal? Oh, that’s rich,” I cried. At his unwillingness to acknowledge our time together, my temper pawed the ground and got ready to charge. “How personal can it be when I’ve seen you naked, but I don’t even know your real name?”