A Lasting Impression

him.
    He’d last seen her a couple of hours ago, relatively calm and making certain everything was carried out to the last detail. When she’d excused herself to get ready, she’d looked as excited as Adelicia and the LeVerts, who had been holed up in the second-floor bedrooms of the mansion all afternoon.
    He’d seen Cara Netta briefly last night at dinner, after their arrival, and relations between the two of them had been strained. Even Madame LeVert and Diddie had acted a little cool toward him. He understood, but he still held that he’d made the right decision.
    For everyone.
    Seeing Claire’s handiwork at every turn, he thought again of his conversation with her in the library, and of what her father had said to her. He had trouble believing it. He believed her . His difficulty came in understanding how a father could say such a thing to his daughter. And judging from the pain in Claire’s eyes, he would wager that Gustave Laurent’s words had hurt her more often than not.
    In light of that discovery, he’d decided not to tell her about the report on her background. All of his questions had been answered, and his concerns—like Mrs. Acklen’s—were laid to rest.
    “Monroe!”
    Sutton turned and spotted Mr. Holbrook strolling up the drive with his wife, Mildred, on his arm. “Good evening, sir, Mrs. Holbrook.” He fell into step beside them.
    Mildred’s eyes twinkled in the golden glow of lantern light. “I’ve never seen anything so beautiful in all my life. Mrs. Acklen has truly outdone herself this time. None of us will ever dare throw a party in Nashville again!”
    Sutton felt a swell of pride. “Mrs. Acklen’s personal liaison, Miss Claire Laurent, arranged everything this evening, down to the last detail. I’ll be sure to pass along your compliments to her, Mrs. Holbrook.”
    “I’d appreciate a personal introduction to this Miss Laurent, if that’s possible. To tell her myself.”
    Sutton nodded. “I believe I can arrange that.”
    “Any word from your dear mother recently?” Holbrook asked.
    “I received a letter two days ago.” Sutton heard his name across the way and nodded a greeting to arriving guests. “She’s doing well. And, at least for now”—he gave them a look, knowing they understood his mother’s eccentric nature—“she says she’s contented there with her sister and won’t contemplate a visit to Nashville until next fall.” To his immense relief.
    The entrance to the mansion was crowded, but they eventually made their way inside, and as the music from the brass ensemble on the front lawn fell away, the sweet strains of the stringed orchestra in the grand salon reached out to greet them.
    Cinnamon sachets and pillows adorned the tables and chairs, lending a homey scent. Potted camellias and confectionary centerpieces accented the tables, and poinsettias added splashes of color to every room.
    Guests clustered around Ruth Gleaning, their murmurs and raised eyebrows abounding. Mr. and Mrs. Holbrook stopped to admire the Sleeping Children, but Sutton continued on. He caught a glimpse of Adelicia and Mrs. LeVert on a raised dais on one end of the grand salon, where they greeted guests. Beside them, Diddie and Cara Netta did likewise. Adelicia looked radiant in the dress she’d worn when presented at Napoleon’s court.
    The women looked like royalty, which, in Nashville society, he guessed they almost were. They were engulfed by guests, and he was pleased to notice the number of men already pressing for Cara Netta’s attention.
    Pausing, he peered over the crowd, searching for Claire. Then like the parting of the Red Sea, the crush of guests dispersed into various other rooms, emptying the hallway. And there she stood—
    At the entry to the grand salon, dressed in an opalescent blue dress, looking back at him over her shoulder. Her bare shoulder.
    Sutton’s breath seeped from his lungs. For as long as he lived—and at the moment he prayed that would be a very, very long time—he would never forget how beautiful she looked tonight. And that inviting look on her face . . . Playful, enticing, as if she had a secret she shouldn’t tell, but would—with coaxing—to him.
    In six long strides, he was beside her, wishing he could nuzzle the soft column of her neck or the creamy curves of her shoulders. As it was, he lifted her hand to his mouth. “You . . . are . . . radiant,” he whispered, and bestowed a soft kiss.
    A blush crept into her cheeks.