I turned to look at her, surprised. “May I help you?” she asked haughtily.
“I hope you’ll take the time to enjoy the exhibit tonight before it opens tomorrow,” Nick was saying. “I know I must, because during term—”
“Blah, blah, blah.” Clive whispered into my ear, giving it a nip.
“Shh.”
“No one’s paying attention to us,” Clive said. “They’ll never notice if we sneak off and find a dark corner. Everyone’s too busy gossiping about him and India.”
“Look at her down there,” Bea grumbled. “The cat that got the cream. The cat that got several pints of cream.”
Even from up high, I could see the glowing face of India Bolingbroke, who had not arrived on Nick’s arm but whom the rumor mill—so, Clive—insisted had been placed specially in the front row on the ground floor, along with a clutch of Richard-approved luminaries. The appearance caused reporters to use words like adoring and ladylike and exceedingly well matched in the papers the next day. I couldn’t imagine she and Nick were actually that tight. Nick had shortened or rescheduled several outings with her in favor of hanging out with me, and I never saw her on our floor at all. I assumed she’d been inside his room, but I couldn’t have guessed when, and although I’d seen them holding hands surreptitiously in a dark bar, he’d never so much as given her a peck on the cheek in public. But that night I had witnessed him guiding her gently through the throng, leaning in attentively, drawing her into conversations. If she was besotted, he was at the very least protective.
“Richard loves her,” Clive said, in reporter mode, as we watched India applaud exuberantly. “Fancy parents, rich enough not to be grasping, not a whiff of scandal.”
“Nor a whiff of personality,” Bea said. “I’ve known Nick since we were tots”—Gaz mouthed along at this behind her back—“and she’ll bore him to tears in a week.”
But unquestionably, India looked like the sort of person who ought to be dating a prince: model-gorgeous with a megawatt smile, wearing a dress that easily cost two thousand pounds. Given that nearly everything I owned at this time was from Old Navy, I’d greeted Nick’s group invitation to the gala with a panicked phone call to Lacey, who pointed out that I had a clothing designer living next door. This turned out to be a mistake: Joss had insisted I wear her favorite new design, a stretchy crushed-velvet-and-leather dress that twisted strangely across my torso, in which I resembled nothing so much as a lampshade at a biker bar. Cilla had taken one look at it and lent me a very large coat.
We drank flute upon flute of free Champagne while Nick made the rounds, introducing India to a series of elaborately bearded lords. She certainly seemed to charm Nick’s father. To the outsider and even to many insiders, Richard seems like a relic, a man meant to rule five hundred years ago when a mere flash of his sword could vanquish his enemies and oppress the peasants. But with India that night, Richard laughed and was as solicitous as Nick, which the news claimed was tantamount to him anointing her as his future daughter-in-law.
It was two hours before we got anywhere near them.
“Thank God,” Nick said, excusing himself from whomever Richard was speaking to; Richard never abandoned the conversation, yet kept a firm eye on Nick’s back. “I have answered the same two questions forty-five times.” He eyed my massive coat. “Are you cold?”
“Joss,” Cilla said.
“Say no more.” He grinned.
“Dick bringing up the polo thing was a bit much, given the papers,” murmured Clive.
“But your speech was great,” I said. “That Louvre story is super charming.”
“And apocryphal,” he said. “Father told me we needed Warm Family Stories, and obviously most of mine are fictional.”
I started to laugh, until I saw nobody else was, and that he wasn’t joking.
“Where’s India?” I asked, changing tacks. “I’ve never officially met her.”
Nick pointed across the way. “I left her with a woman who kept asking me how I plan to defend myself in case of kidnapping.”
“How attentive of you,” said Bea.
“She’ll be all right. They’re talking about Pilates,” Nick said. “It’s awkward bringing someone to these things, but Father insisted, and I was too tired to fight it.” His gaze flickered toward me.
PPO Furrow stepped in, his signature wrinkle in full effect. “The Prince of Wales prefers you to stay with the VIP guests,” he said in a low voice.