He met her eyes with his fiery black gaze. Yet her aunt, with a ringed hand flitting to her lips and a puzzled, worried look in her eyes, deaf to all this riot of warmth and flitting desire, was playing Patience—playing Patience, as if Dionysius and her curate had died together. Some few of the individuals seated at the other tables seemed to take an interest in the proceedings of Blueskin and his party, just as a bystander watches any other game; but, generally speaking, the company were too much occupied with their own concerns to pay attention to anything else. ‘Tie a horse behind the carriage?’ he echoed incredulously. He drove her home that night, kissing her again and again at stoplights. That he received guests of the name of Valade at all would have surprised anyone who knew his history.
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