Page 61 of Bargaining for the Barrister
“I’m impressed,” Louisa said to Ian.
He gave her his first genuine smile. “My ability to know when a meal is served is unprecedented.” Was this a sign that Ian actually wanted to be friends? Maybe if he softened toward her, Paul would feel like he could too. Ian put out his arm to escort her to dinner, and taking it seemed to solidify the comradery between them. She knew his friendship was not freely granted, and she was a little honored.
Louisa could not resist glancing Paul’s way as they pivoted toward the door. He gave her a cursory glance and fell into step behind her. At dinner, she took a seat next to Ian and was surprised when Paul took the other seat next to her. There were no seating cards, so it made sense with him following behind her, but his mood toward her suggested he would rather have chosen a seat as far from her as possible. She wanted to gloat. He had declared they were never meant to be, that he felt nothing, and yet he clearly had as hard of a time ignoring her as she did him.
Under the commotion of guests taking their seats, she tilted her head to the side and said under her breath, “Something is bothering you.”
He tucked his napkin into his waistcoat and whispered, “Just a brief I received. It’s a complicated one.”
The room settled, so she waited to respond. Pulling her gloves from her hands, she set them in her lap, biding her time. A footman stepped between her and Ian to set a dish down. She took the opportunity to ask Paul, “What is it about?”
“It requires more of a moral decision than a legal one.” He cleared his throat as the footman stepped back.
His words were reluctant, but at least he was speaking to her. No matter how frustrated he became, he was always respectful toward her. Such a realization tugged a smile from her lips.
She waited until conversation picked up around the table before responding. “I do hope you advise your client to follow his heart and not his head. Men these days overcomplicate everything.”
Paul had just pulled his fork from his mouth, and he choked on his bite. He put his face in his napkin and coughed several times before letting the linen drop back into place.
Instinctively, Louisa reached for his goblet and held it out to him. With his head tucked, he reached for the glass on the table at the same time, not realizing it was already extended to him. His hand connected with the glass, knocking it from her hand. The red liquid spilled partly onto his plate, but the bulk of it landed on his lap.
Paul regained his breath and stood, mopping up his lap with his napkin. “Forgive me,” he said to the table at large. “How clumsy of me. Excuse me while I clean myself up.”
Ian handed Louisa his napkin, and she collected her own. “Wait, take these,” she said to Paul’s back, but it was too late; he was gone.
“Give him this as well,” Lady Kellen said, reaching out a third napkin.
Louisa nodded and rushed to follow him out. She was not two feet out the door when she realized her reticule still swung from her wrist. An idea dawned on her. This was the perfect opportunity to deliver her letter.
She called, “Paul, wait!”
He was several feet down the narrow corridor leading to who knew where, but he stopped at the sound of her voice.
She couldn’t just hand the letter to him; it would be far too brazen, almost as forward as her kissing him had been, and look where that had gotten her. But she could slip it under the napkins. Her hand froze on her reticule as she went to follow through with her plan. He would surely discover the note before she had time to slip away. Then she might have to witness him reading it! With a tight smile, she extended the napkins to him without the note. “Forgive me. I did not mean to make you choke.”
He laughed lightly. “Nonsense. How could you have done that?”
“Well, anyway, use those to clean yourself up.”
She glanced at his waistcoat, a dark blue with thin yellow pinstripes and double-breasted buttons that met large lapels under his cravat. If she could just tuck the note in a pocket... Drat! This particular waistcoat had no pockets. Her eyes traveled up to the lapels and how they created a triangular sort of opening on his chest as he leaned forward to clean his trousers. It would not be much more difficult to slip it in there without him knowing. Then he could read it at home, where she would not have to witness it.
“Thank you. This is helping.” He blotted at his thighs with the napkins, his eyes averted from her.
She dug in her reticule, clasped the small note in her hand, and quickly withdrew it.
“You can go back and eat,” Paul said. “I won’t look pretty, but I will rejoin you in a moment.” He straightened and gave her a well-meaning smile.
It was now or never.
“Dear me, your cravat is crooked.”
He dipped his chin to have a look. “It’s decent enough.”
“Do hold still for a moment. I shall remedy it for you.” She reached for it, but he pulled back.
“I care more about breathing than about fashion,” he protested.
“I insist,” she said, closing in on him. Delivering her note would only take a quick slip of the wrist.
