Phillip turned toward Tristan. “Is Lord Insley here? I’d like to personally thank him for making this exhibit such a success.”
“He is,” Tristan said. He glanced around the packed room. “I don’t see him, but I’ll be sure to introduce you when I find him.”
We all scanned the crowd with Tristan as if the three of us knew what the lord looked like. I imagined he was elderly, being a lord and all, and studied the silver-haired men in the room. None of them seemed very aristocratic, however.
This event had one of the largest turnouts I’d ever seen in my time at the museum. There were groups of guests admiring the items on display, many were standing in clusters enjoying cocktails, and at the far end of the room, the dance floor was full of couples swaying to the sweet sounds from the string quartet. None of them looked like a Lord Insley.
Tristan’s gaze lingered on Bri’s profile. “I must admit, I never appreciated how flattering the female attire of the early nineteenth century was until just this moment. You two are breathtaking.”
Oh, he was a charmer. I glanced at Bri, aware that my hyper verbal friend was still speechless. “Thank you,” I said for both of us. “You’re too kind.”
“You’ll note he left me out of that observation,” Phillip said. He gestured to his high-waisted beige trousers and brocade waistcoat over a starched dress shirt, which framed his neck and face. The very pointed collar was tied with a flouncy white cravat. “I look like I’m wearing a flotation device.”
Tristan laughed. His own tuxedo was clearly bespoke, fitting him perfectly. “I will refrain from causing offense by agreeing or disagreeing, but...better you than me, mate.”
Phillip chuckled. “No offense taken. I understand completely.”
Bri was sneaking peeks at Tristan when he wasn’t looking at her but had yet to engage in the conversation. I decided to give her a nudge.
I finished the champagne in my glass and in my best damsel in distress voice, said, “I declare I am parched.” I dangled the glass meaningfully from my fingers at Tristan.
“May I bring you another glass of champagne, Ms. Graham?” he asked.
“Oh, thank you, but perhaps sparkling water would be the better choice and, please, call me Molly,” I said. “Bri, why don’t you go with him since you know what I like?”
My normally sassy friend smiled demurely. Who was this stranger? “Of course.”
Tristan held out his arm to her and Bri slid her hand into the crook of his elbow as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Then she giggled and Tristan looked as if he’d been shot in the butt by Cupid’s arrow. I watched them go, thinking my friend just might make this a Valentine’s Day to remember.
Phillip turned to face me and said, “Subtle you are not.”
I bobbed a curtsy. “No, but I’m very effective.”
Bri stayed with Tristan for the rest of the evening. I did my duty and made mind-numbing small talk with several of the museum’s donors and chatted up the museum’s librarians about the Austen exhibit. It all felt horribly forced—but maybe that was just my smile, and exhausting, which was probably just my feet in the ballet flats.
Toward the second half of the gala, I snagged a glass of champagne and hid behind a twinkling Ficus, where I downed the fizzy bubbles in an attempt to feel anything beyond the awkwardness that permeated my soul. It was no use. I had reached maximum capacity for the effort required to chat with strangers. I was tapped out.
When I gave my empty glass to a passing waiter, I caught a glimpse of Bri on the dance floor in Tristan’s arms and they looked so right together, with their perfect hair and smiles, that I couldn’t even squeeze out a drop of jealousy. Okay, maybe just a teeny tiny dewdrop of envy, but it quickly evaporated when I saw the way they stared into each other’s eyes. They were absolutely besotted with each other and I couldn’t think of anyone who deserved it more.
The party was in full swing, and I knew I should join the crowd, but my fichu had started to itch and my hair was staging a full-on rebellion. I glanced around the room and realized there was no one for me to aim high or low at. I was squashed flat with discouragement and couldn’t bear another moment of the festivities.
It was time to ghost out of the gala and head home where a hot cup of tea, my pajamas, and a good book awaited. A nice thick slice of pizza from my favorite food cart by the park on my way would console me in my disappointment over this evening.
I strode up the staircase, hoping that if I walked with purpose anyone who might see me would assume I was just running an errand. The wood paneled hallway of the second floor was dimly lit and dark. The office doors were all shut, meaning the upper level was deserted. I let out a sigh and yanked the fichu from around my neck. Sweet relief.
There was a light shining from beneath my office door and I realized I must have left it on, knowing I was going to come back and change. I yanked the ribbon loose beneath my breasts and began to shrug out of the loosened gown.
I opened the door to my office and stepped inside, eager to peel off the dress and slip into my day clothes, when a movement behind my desk startled me. I jumped and let out a small high-pitched shriek.
There was a man—a stranger—sitting at my desk!
Chapter Three
The intruder and I stared at each other for a beat and then his gaze drifted down and then shot right back up to study the ceiling.
“You, eh, um, I’m not sure—” he stuttered.
Furious at the violation of my privacy, I planted my hands on my hips and glared. “Who are you and what are you doing in my office?”
He was standing in a half crouch as if he’d been rising from the chair but was now stuck somewhere in between, not wanting to make a move that might scare or offend me. He glanced at me but didn’t meet my eyes. Instead, his gaze fastened somewhere over my head.
“M. Graham, I presume?” He waved his hand at the door where my nameplate was attached.
“Molly, the M stands for Molly,” I said. “And, yes, that’s me. And you are?”
He was wearing a tuxedo, which made it obvious that he’d been at the gala, but his bow tie was loose, the ends dangling on each side of his unbuttoned shirt collar. Had he sought refuge in here because he’d been feeling ill? Or was he a very well-dressed burglar?
It hit me then that I was all alone on the upper floor of the museum with an absolute stranger. This was what avid readers described as a protagonist’s TSTL (too stupid to live) moment, which was frequently found in modern fiction. I’d always been a critic myself, but I now had a new appreciation for those sticky situations that characters found themselves in.
“I’m a guest,” he said. He still didn’t meet my gaze. “Would you believe me if I said I was hiding?”
He had a deep-toned British accent, which was annoyingly distracting. In the silence, his gaze met mine, drifted down, and then rocketed away. “You might want to um...” His voice trailed off, but he pointed to his chest and then mine, indicating there was a situation.
Suddenly, I was aware of a cool breeze in a place I should not be feeling a breeze at all. I glanced down and then clapped my hands over my front. One of my girls had gone rogue and had popped out of my loosened bodice, exposing one perky nipple. Ack!