Certain simple purposes emerged from the disingenuous muddle of her feelings and desires. A jar of pink roses upon a tiny table seemed to gain an extra delicacy of colour from the sombre curtains behind. Courtlaw found himself ushered without questions into Annabel’s long low drawing-room, fragrant with flowers and somewhat to his surprise, crowded with guests. Even now he was not at all sure that she was not playing with him. More importantly, she had her wits. Their heads touched again, their arms tightened. ‘How could you possibly know it?’ ‘I know it,’ Lucilla told him frostily, ‘because Dorothée told me that Madame Valade went off with Gerald positively purring in her ear—which is a thing he never does—and came back with him looking like the cat after cream.
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