The Most Beautiful Girl in Cuba - Chanel Cleeton Page 0,28

fortune to make a splash at an event such as this one. My features have never been particularly fine, nor have I embraced the love of fashion as so many in this set have. The dowry my father left for me before he died was adequate, my stepfather’s addition to it satisfactory, but neither my pale blue eyes, blond hair that could never be described as golden, nor my purse were fine enough to draw the notice of a prime catch. And truthfully, having lived on my own with my aunt for a few years now, I can’t quite countenance why women are so eager to put up with men and all of their peccadilloes.

“Grace.”

I whirl around at the sound of my name in a tone I’ve heard since childhood.

My mother and stepfather stand before me, dressed in elegant costumes. We last saw one another at Christmas, and I wait for a rush of emotion, but am as always left with the sensation of crossing paths with an acquaintance I have not seen for several months.

“Hello, Mother.”

She leans forward, kissing my cheeks in greeting, the familiar scent of her perfume wafting over me, and my stepfather follows suit.

Her eyes widen slightly as her gaze runs over me. “I confess, this is the last place I ever imagined to see you, Grace.”

I smile wryly. “I don’t doubt it. I’m here for work.”

Her mouth parts in a little “o,” but she says nothing, my stepfather silent beside her.

My desire to be a journalist has been a bone of contention between us, but my mother is too well-mannered to comment on it, particularly in public. Whatever hand-wringing has been done, it has been conducted in the privacy of their home.

Truthfully, I’m not sure my mother occupies herself too much with such things. When she married my stepfather, she jettisoned her old life and her memories of my father. I didn’t fit into her new world, her child from a previous marriage, so she paid me as little attention as possible, hiring nannies and governesses to care for me. My lackluster debut into society and lack of marital offers ultimately gave me the one thing I craved—independence.

My living situation with my aunt benefits both of us in a way, and our relationship is mostly conducted in a few holidays spent together, and occasions such as these when we exchange pleasantries and little else.

We speak for a few more minutes, and then they’re off to visit an acquaintance from their social set, leaving me to my own devices once more.

I jot down a few additional observations, struggling to find the particular turn of phrase I’d like to use to capture the scene before me, when—

“I’m gratified to see your notepad in attendance this evening,” a voice murmurs beside me.

I nearly jump, so caught up in the story I was drafting in my mind and the difficulty of translating the images before me, the utter decadence of them, into something passable.

Rafael Harden stands beside me, dressed in a costume of some vague European origin, so generic it feels as though he’s thumbing his nose at the whole business.

He arches his brow at me. “Queen Elizabeth?”

“Short-notice costume. Hearst sorted it out for me.” I have the feeling Hearst borrowed it from some theater production. “Besides, I’m working,” I add, gesturing with the aforementioned notepad in my hand. “And you are?”

“Wondering why the hell I came.”

His deadpan response elicits a smile from me.

“Why did you come? I wouldn’t have guessed this would be your usual fare.”

He shrugs. “Business. Same reason as you.” He casts a derisive look at the rest of the crowd. “Some of us do work for a living.” He glances down at my notepad from atop his tall perch. “Get anything good?”

“I’m not entirely sure. Maybe. The society beat isn’t my usual.”

“Then why’d you take this assignment?”

“Mr. Hearst asked me. I think he hoped I would have special insight given my former entrées into society.”

I didn’t want to disappoint Hearst with the truth that I hardly possess salacious gossip to pass on to his readers. I also couldn’t afford to say no to an opportunity to impress my boss.

I wait for Rafael to move on, but he doesn’t, his feet firmly planted on the extravagant floor. I turn my body away from his, searching the crowd once more so I can beg off. Whatever his game, I wish he wouldn’t play it with me. He’s too plainspoken for polite society, too handsome, too bold, his