A Lasting Impression

turn, ladies, may I present Miss Claire Elise Laurent, my personal liaison . . . and the talented and assiduous young woman who is bringing a wealth of much-needed order to my life again.”
    With aplomb and grace belying the nervousness Sutton knew she felt, Claire curtsied deep. “Madame LeVert, it is indeed an honor.” She smiled at Diddie and Cara Netta. “Ladies, my pleasure to meet you as well.”
    Madame LeVert extended her hand. “Miss Laurent, I’d not been here five minutes before I heard your abilities being praised to the utmost by Mr. Monroe.”
    Claire looked at Sutton then, and he smiled at her, happy to see a flicker of the same on her face, along with another emotion he couldn’t define. And he usually read her so well. She was getting better at masking her feelings. The discovery wasn’t welcome. Neither was the way Cara Netta wove her arm back through his and pressed close.
    Claire’s gaze dropped to where Cara Netta was touching him, then quickly skittered away.
    “I would welcome your assistance,” Madame LeVert continued, “in penning some overdue missives—with Adelicia’s permission, of course.”
    Claire opened her mouth to respond, but Adelicia beat her to it.
    “She would be thrilled to assist you, Octavia. Miss Laurent can begin whenever you wish. And likewise, if either of you girls needs anything, please don’t hesitate to ask her. She will be at your disposal and will be happy to make your stay at Belmont as pleasant as possible. Won’t you, Miss Laurent?”
    “Yes, ma’am.” Claire tilted her head in acknowledgment. “It would be my pleasure.”
    But pleasure was the last thing Sutton felt. That same disturbing feeling he’d experienced moments ago grated through him again. Maybe it was the way Adelicia had flicked her wrist at Claire moments earlier or how she’d answered for her just now that rubbed him the wrong way.
    Or maybe, he sighed inwardly, it was his own frustration—and disappointment with himself—that he was feeling.
    As dinner guests began arriving that evening, Claire worked in the formal dining room to finish the last-minute details, doing her best not to think about what she’d been trying not to think about ever since the LeVerts arrived—Cara Netta.
    Or more to the point, Cara Netta and Sutton.
    Friends didn’t quite describe them, she’d swiftly concluded. Not with the way Cara Netta looked at him, touched him, laid almost tangible claim to him. Sutton had to be aware of Cara Netta’s feelings for him. He’d have to be blind not to. And one thing Sutton Monroe wasn’t was blind. The man noticed everything.
    Well, almost everything.
    She’d done her best to bury the hurt she’d felt when the LeVerts arrived, along with the twinge of jealousy that still twisted inside her. After all, she had no claim on Sutton, not when women like Cara Netta existed in the world. And, Claire knew, not when she’d done the things she’d done.
    She smoothed a wrinkle from the tablecloth and turned the candelabra a fraction, an ache starting somewhere near the vicinity of her heart.
    She straightened, determined to ignore it, and eyed the china and crystal stemware. If she’d lost Sutton, then she’d lost something—and someone—that was never hers to begin with. So really, she hadn’t lost anything. At least that’s what she kept telling herself. Over and over.
    She’d gotten the impression from Sutton’s occasional glances that he’d wanted to speak with her during the course of the afternoon. But between helping Madame LeVert with her letter writing and getting ready for the dinner party, she’d simply not had the time.
    No . . . That wasn’t true. She simply hadn’t wanted to talk to him yet, not when she sensed what he was going to tell her—that he reciprocated Cara Netta’s affections. What man wouldn’t? So she’d managed to avoid being alone with him. Not a difficult thing to do at Belmont.
    A clock chimed from the hallway, snapping her back to the moment, and she consulted her list again.
    She checked the place cards—arranged according to Mrs. Acklen’s instructions—then the flowers comprising the centerpiece and those on the antique sideboard, along with the gifts Mrs. Acklen had requested be placed at the top of each place setting. Boxes of cigars for the gentlemen and scented lace handkerchiefs for the ladies.
    She stepped back to admire her efforts and took a cleansing breath. Five minutes before six. Hardly any time