Page 96 of Boiling Point
Inside, the hall was cool and vast. Painted portraits stared down from their gilded frames. The red-and-blue mosaic floor gleamed underfoot, and my footsteps sounded too loud.
As we passed under an archway, I leaned close to Cal. “Why ‘Mister’ Hawthorne?” I whispered. “Not ‘Doctor’?”
He didn’t glance at me as he answered quietly, “Because a doctorate is a professional title, not a social one. It doesn’t mean anything here. Not in this house.”
Avery led us down a wide corridor lined with pale wainscoting. The drawing room waited at the end, its double doors open but still.
Cal didn’t slow. He didn’t knock. He simply walked in.
A woman sat near a tall window in a high-backed chair, a glossy magazine open across one knee. Beside her, a silver tea tray gleamed, not a cup out of place.
She looked up as we entered and rose with effortless grace.
Her movements were smooth, practiced. She wore tailored cream slacks and a soft blue blouse with a silken sheen—no jewelry except a strand of pearls and a watch that probably cost more than my car. Her silver-and-ash-blonde hair was perfectly swept back. She didn’t smile, exactly. But something faint shifted at the corners of her mouth.
“Callum, dear,” she said, stepping forward.
She kissed his cheek—twice, one side then the other. Light. Deliberate. The sort of continental greeting that suggested affection without surrendering to it.
Cal inclined his head. “Hello, Mother.”
Then he turned to me.
“May I present Miss Gabrielle Clark? Gabrielle, my mother—Lady Branleigh.”
Her eyes met mine at once—clear, pale, and appraising. “Miss Clark,” she said with a cool sort of grace. “How lovely to finally meet you. Do sit.”
I looked to Cal. He nodded, so I crossed to the nearest tufted red velvet sofa and sat—carefully. The stiff cushion barely gave. Cal remained standing a moment longer, then lowered himself beside me. The room was flooded with soft light from tall sash windows draped in heavy gold curtains. Pale yellow walls were trimmed in white, and delicate filigree traced the corners where ceiling met cornice. Everything gleamed with restrained opulence—meant to impress without appearing to try.
Lady Branleigh gestured toward the tea tray, though she made no move to serve. “Avery, two more settings, please.”
He nodded and withdrew without a word.
She turned back to me. “You do take tea, don’t you? I ought to have asked.”
“I do,” I said. “Thank you.”
She took her seat again with a slight incline of her head, as though that confirmed something she’d already suspected. “How was your flight? It must be rather long from Texas.”
“It was, but comfortable,” I said. “Thank you for having me.”
She gave a soft murmur of approval. “I’m so pleased you’ve come. You must be exhausted.”
I offered a polite smile. “A bit. But I’m glad to be here.”
“Good,” she said. “Isabel will be joining us for luncheon.”
I glanced at Cal, who gave nothing away.
“And Father?” he asked.
Lady Branleigh’s mouth tightened by a fraction. “He had to go into London on business. But he’ll return by teatime.” She smoothed an invisible crease from her sleeve. “James and Caroline will join us for dinner this evening.”
Avery returned, carrying a tray with two patterned porcelain cups and a matching teapot, which he placed on the table beside the existing service.
“Shall I pour, ma’am?”
“No thank you,” she said, leaning forward to lift the pot. “I’ll be mother.”
