A Lasting Impression

“And you . . . are right on time.” She lowered her voice. “I’m scared to death. I don’t know anyone in this room.”
    “Sure you do. You know me.”
    She tilted her head to one side and smiled, but he sensed her nervousness. He offered his arm and she accepted, moving to stand closer beside him.
    He made a show of looking at her. “That dress is stunning on you.”
    She swayed from side to side, causing the beaded tassels on her bodice and sleeves to dance. “Isn’t it pretty? It was a gift from Mrs. Acklen last night.”
    Sutton did his best not to stare where he shouldn’t. He’d seen a woman’s bare shoulders before. The grand salon was full of them. But he’d never seen Claire’s. Not with her being in mourning. It surprised him a little that Adelicia would encourage her to wear such a dress. Then again, he doubted anyone outside this household knew about her parents’ deaths, and no one inside would begrudge her this night, and this dress. Not after all she’d done since coming to Belmont.
    He leaned closer and caught a whiff of lilac in her hair. She’d gathered up her curls for the most part, but some hung loose, framing her face and falling down her back. The effect was intoxicating.
    “Mr. Monroe?”
    He turned. “Mrs. Holbrook . . .” He quickly made introductions between her and Claire, wondering where her husband had drifted off to. He wanted to introduce him to Claire as well.
    Claire curtsied. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Holbrook.”
    “The pleasure is all mine, Miss Laurent. When Mr. Monroe told us you were responsible for all of this, I knew I needed to meet you. I’m in charge of the Nashville Women’s League, and we’re having our annual spring tea this coming—”
    “Mrs. Holbrook.” Sutton shook his head, halfway curbing a grin. “How often have you reprimanded your husband and me for conducting business at these events? And here you go—”
    “I was simply making a connection, Mr. Monroe.” Mrs. Holbrook batted her eyes. “So just you never mind and let us ladies talk for a minute. Go find my husband and keep him out of mischief.”
    “I’ll do that, ma’am. But first, may I have a private word with Miss Laurent?” At her consenting nod, he drew Claire off to the side. “Would you give me the honor of saving the first dance for me, mademoiselle ?”
    “Oh . . .” Claire pouted. “I’m sorry, monsieur .” Then she smiled. “I saved you the first two.”
    This woman . . . “Do you know the meaning of the word throttle , Claire?”
    “I do. It’s what I’d like to do to you nearly every other day, Willister.”
    Sutton delivered her back to Mrs. Holbrook and walked away with a grin.
    Cup of cider in hand, Sutton found Bartholomew Holbrook occupying a prime corner in the grand salon—a raised stair that provided a perfect view of the dance floor. The man had a glass of champagne in one hand and two of Cordina’s tea cakes in the other. Lemon, from the looks of them.
    Mr. Holbrook sipped the champagne, his attention on the guests. “You haven’t told Mrs. Acklen yet, have you?” His deep voice was a whisper.
    “No, I haven’t.” Sutton didn’t have to ask what he meant, and he, too, kept his focus on the room, mindful of who was standing within earshot.
    Holbrook lifted his glass in silent greeting to a gentleman walking by. “The review board’s decision will be public record soon, Mr. Monroe. Possibly as early as next week. And as we both know, news travels fast.”
    “I’ll tell her soon. I didn’t want anything to spoil this evening for her.” Or for Claire , he thought, dreading having to tell her the news even more than telling Adelicia. He hoped it wouldn’t make him appear lesser in her eyes, as it did in his own.
    Mr. Holbrook looked over at him. “Forgive my wife for wading into the pool of gossip, and me for splashing in her puddles, but she told me she learned that you and Miss Henrietta Caroline LeVert have dissolved your understanding.”
    Sutton nodded, not surprised that word had spread. “It was for the best.”
    “Would that acknowledgment be shared by both parties?”
    Coming from anyone else, the question would have seemed like prying. But this man was as close to a father as Sutton had. “Yes, sir. Or it will be, given time.”
    Holbrook merely nodded, swirling the champagne in his glass. “Any news on the cotton fiasco?”
    Sutton took a sip of the cider, tasting something a little stronger than