Page 88 of The Lost Heiress
“Table two?” Ana asked, holding up her place card.
“You’re in the right place,” Hugh assured her, pulling out the empty chair between him and Ransom. “That dress, my dear, was made for you,” Hugh went on. “You’re a dark-haired Marilyn.”
Ransom normally found Hugh’s flirtations amusing, but now he found his grip tightening on his dinner napkin beneath the table.
“Come now,” Hugh said. “You’ve earned yourself a drink for surviving the summer. Or should I say, for surviving Saoirse. Lord knows I love the girl, but she can be hell on wheels. And the two of us together—” He whistled. “Forget it.” He motioned to a waiter passing by with a tray of champagne and lifted off two glasses. “Ransom, will you partake?” Hugh asked.
Ransom shook his head. He couldn’t afford to be off his game tonight, to be operating at anything less than 100 percent. Tonight, it was too important that everything went according to plan. “No, thank you,” Ransom said.
Hugh took a third glass anyway. “Ah, come now, we’re celebrating,” Hugh said. He set the glass down in front of him. “Now, I rather pride myself on giving toasts,” Hugh went on. “It’s a little hobby of mine. I’d make it a profession if I could, but I’ve vowed never to take a profession.” He lifted his glass. “To you, my dear, for surviving the summer,” Hugh said to Ana. “Saoirse’s not just a little firecracker; she’s the whole damn show.”
Ransom raised his glass but didn’t drink; he was saved from any protest from Hugh by the arrival of Jacqueline, who took the empty seat on Hugh’s other side without waiting for anyone to pull out her chair.
“I can’t believe you’re drinking without me,” Jacqueline said, admonishing the entire table. “Where’s my glass?”
“Have mine, love. I’ll get another,” Hugh said, passing her his drink. He half stood to motion to the nearest waiter holding a tray and grabbed another glass.
“How was the croquet game earlier on the lawn?” Jacqueline asked, taking a sip of her drink. “I was sorry to miss it. I’m a very good player, you know. I could have gone pro if I didn’t have such weak wrists.”
“Are there professional croquet players?” Hugh asked.
“Oh, yes,” Jacqueline said. “Anything where you hit a ball with a stick can be a profession.”
Ransom glanced over at Ana. He watched the rise and fall of her collarbone as she drew breath, and he hated what it did to him, how he wanted to kiss the hollow of her neck. He looked away from her, stared down at his porcelain dinner plate. What was wrong with him? She was a liar, a manipulator, a con artist. He knew nothing about her aside from that.
“Picture?”
There was a man standing next to the table, a photographer. He held up his camera.
“Oh, yes, please,” Jacqueline said. “I haven’t eaten for a week. I need photographic evidence of how great I look.”
She leaned in toward Hugh, already cheesing.
The photographer crouched slightly and looked through his lens.
“Congressman Towers,” he said. “If you would, sir, lean in closer to the young lady.”
Ransom reluctantly scooted his chair closer to Ana and leaned toward her until the lapel of his jacket was practically touching her shoulder. He stared straight ahead at the camera, but he felt Ana stiffen next to him. He could smell the store-bought shampoo she used, the faint whiff of strawberries. He held his breath.
The photographer snapped the picture. A second. A third.
Then he stood. “Thank you,” he said and moved on to the next table.
Ransom scooted away from Ana, back to his place setting.
The salads came. Then dinner. Ransom had barely finished eating when the band started up and Saoirse was opening the dance floor with—to Ransom’s immense surprise and disappointment—Teddy Mountbatten. He thought they were at odds with one another? But here they were, smiling, holding each other close. Everyone applauded when they finished, and then the band broke out into a banger, and Saoirse’s friends flocked onto the dance floor.
“Come on, you ninnies, we can’t be the last ones out there,” Jacqueline said, throwing her dinner napkin onto the table and standing up.
Ransom shook his head, but Jacqueline pulled on his arm anyway.
“You have to dance at your own party,” Jacqueline said. “Ana, you too. Don’t make me throw you over my shoulder and carry you out there myself, because Iwilldo it.”
Ana stood reluctantly.
Hugh was already on his feet. They all followed Jacqueline, winding their way around the tables to the dance floor by the stage.
Ransom didn’t mind dancing when there were rules prescribed to it—the waltz, the foxtrot, even a simple box step. But this solo dancing next to your partner, the ungoverned swaying and swinging of one’s arms, one’s hips, felt silly to him. Jacqueline bumped her hip into his and clapped her hands, and then Hugh took her hand and twirled her around. Then the music changed to a slow song, and Jacqueline and Hugh paired off, leaving Ransom and Ana standing there, just looking at each other.
