She glanced over at him. There was no way to tell if he felt any apprehension about this, even though he was not a normal guest at ton events. He sat relaxed, his foot resting on his other knee, staring out the window. “Do you know what the German Ambassador looks like?” he asked.
“I do. I’ve met him several times in the past year or so. He is a large man, with a dark mustache that covers his entire upper lip. He appears to be forever dodging his assistant, or secretary, I’m not sure which. A weasel of a little man, with beady eyes, that makes my skin crawl.”
“Here we are,” Mr. Rose said as the vehicle came to a rolling stop.
Once the door was opened by the driver, Mr. Rose stepped out and turned to assist her. He tucked her arm securely against his side and gave her a wink and his notorious lazy smile. She hated the warm feeling that ran through her at his actions.
“No need to play the part until we have an audience,” she said from the side of her mouth.
“Dress rehearsal,” he returned.
“Miss Sanford, I am so happy you have decided to join us.” Lady Benson, their hostess for the afternoon, walked up to them, her hands extended. They offered each other air-kisses.
Lydia turned to Mr. Rose. Before she could say a word, Lady Benson flushed a light pink and she smiled at him.
“My goodness, Dante. I never expected to see you here. I’d given up on sending you invitations to my little gatherings ages ago.” She tapped him on the arm with her fan.
Dante? She knew him by his Christian name?
Mr. Rose bowed over her extended hand. “It is a delight to see you again, Lady Benson.”
Her raised brows and slight smirk after glancing at Lydia said a lot about his formality. After a few seconds of silence, their hostess said, “Let me show you where the others have gathered.” She took Mr. Rose’s other arm and led them along a lovely stone pathway, around the side of the house to a beautiful garden in the rear. She chatted with him the entire time, flirting, casting sultry looks, and generally behaving as though they’d had some sort of secret between them.
Lady Benson had been married for two years.
Things did not improve when they walked up the steps to the patio. Several women moved from various parts of the patio to where she and Mr. Rose stood. Lady Benson continued to hold onto his arm as if she planned to faint and would need his strong arm as support.
It didn’t take long for one of the women to edge Lydia aside and grasp his other arm. Exclamations of joy and surprise burst forth from giggling, flirting women, enough to turn Lydia’s stomach.
Well, bloody hell.
There would be no conducting an investigation if her partner were to be surrounded by adoring females everywhere they went.
The worst part was the man was enjoying himself. He laughed, flirted, and allowed inappropriate suggestions to be tossed in his direction, until she was ready to slam him over the head with something handy and hard. Did he not remember they were supposed to be pretending a courtship?
She moved farther behind him and stabbed him in the back with the point of her parasol.
“Ouch.” Mr. Rose jumped as did the two females hanging onto his arms. He turned and took one look at her and immediately released his admirers. He reached his hand out. “Miss Sanford, please join us.”
Join them? Join them?
She had no idea how severe the look was she tossed him, but he immediately took her arm and the women backed up. Lord, she was coming across as a shrew. Rather than chase the women away, it would be best to join them, as he said, but make certain they knew he’d escorted her to the garden party.
’Twould be a very difficult investigation unless she made some things clear from the start. She looked up at Mr. Rose with what she hoped was not the anger she felt, but with affection. “I believe I would like a stroll in the lovely garden, Mr. Rose.”
He bowed. “Of course, my dear.”
The number of raised brows and gasps at his comment smoothed her feathers. Not that she cared if he flirted with these women. He could do that all day and night if he chose, but they were here to perform a job and spending his time bantering with every female in the place would not get the assignment done.
She was far above flirting. She did not wish to act the simpering, eyelash-batting, arm clinging woman between the schoolroom and the grave.
He took her arm and they moved away from the gathering, with a few of the women suggesting they would like a stroll in the garden, too, when he was finished with her.
They made their way down the steps and onto the continuation of the pathway. Mr. Rose leaned close to her ear. “Jealous, were you?”
She gasped. “Of course not. I don’t care how many women throw themselves at you.”
Mr. Rose looked forward, patted her hand, and smiled. “I think you were jealous.”