“Miss Hartwright came highly recommended,” Mrs. Archer said. “My aunt is lucky to have her.”

“Undoubtedly.” Mr. Finchley’s eyes remained on Clara. “Will you be traveling to the South of France with Mr. and Mrs. Archer in the spring?”

At that moment, a young footman in blue-and-gold livery materialized at the doors of the drawing room. “Dinner is served, my lady.”

Clara could have embraced the fellow. Had the servant not appeared, she may have been forced to do something drastic. To swoon or feign a megrim. Anything to put an end to Mr. Finchley’s line of questioning.

“Thank you, Robert.” Lady Helena moved to rise.

Mr. Thornhill was instantly at his wife’s side to help her from her seat. She clutched tight to his hand. It was the only sign that her advanced state of pregnancy was in any way difficult. The two of them exchanged a look—an unspoken question in Mr. Thornhill’s eyes.

Lady Helena responded with a nod. “I’ll just take your arm, shall I?”

Her husband’s voice was a gentle command. “I insist upon it.”

“Come everyone,” she said. “We needn’t worry about precedence.”

“We’d have a dashed difficult time figuring it out,” Mr. Archer murmured to his wife as they joined Mr. Hayes.

Clara went to assist Mrs. Bainbridge, but there was no need. Mr. Boothroyd was already there, offering his arm. Mrs. Bainbridge took it, allowing him to lead her from the room. Clara was, once again, left on her own.

Well, not quite on her own.

As she followed in Mrs. Bainbridge’s wake, she encountered Mr. Cross.

He stopped in the doorway.

Clara stopped, too, looking up at him in frank expectation. A gentleman would offer his arm, or at least say something.

Mr. Cross did neither.

Which meant absolutely nothing. Not when simple words seemed to evade him.

She waited, nevertheless. Far longer than she’d ever have waited for any other man. So long, she feared she was on the verge of making a ninny of herself. “Well,” she said. “I suppose I’d better—”

“May I escort you in?” he asked. The words were blurted out with something very like anger.

She stared up at him, her brow drawn. Was he angry? His jaw was taut, his throat working on a swallow. Her gaze dropped briefly to his hands. Sure enough, she found one clenched into a fist at his side.

No, it wasn’t anger. And if it was, it wasn’t directed at her. She suspected it may well have been directed at himself.

A dozen questions sprang into her mind. She yearned to ask them.

But this was neither the time, nor the place. And besides, it was none of her affair. He was none of her affair.

This wasn’t real life. It was only a holiday interlude. A brief three weeks spent among strangers. She was obliged to be civil, and that was all. To presume anything more would be impertinent. Dangerous.

She took his arm. “Yes. Please.”