Pretty Poison by Lynne Barron

her. She felt positively beautiful as his gaze swept from her upswept hair to her dainty bronze slippers, a faint flush rising in his cheeks.
    “Good evening, Mr. Avery,” she greeted him. It was all she could do to contain the bubble of merriment that rumbled in her chest. “So nice to see you again.”
    Nicholas blinked at her, gathered his wits and bowed over the hand she extended.
    “Miss Calvert… I had no idea… That is, it is my pleasure to make your acquaintance once more,” he stammered.
    His brother shot him a look before turning to make his greeting.
    “You remember my wife, Lady Avery,” Mr. Avery said as he placed a hand on the lady’s back.
    “Yes, of course,” Emily replied though she couldn’t place where she’d met the woman
    Lady Avery smiled at her, her gray eyes warm. “The Clevedon ball, I believe it was.”
    Dinner was a lively event. Emily was seated between Lord Carmichael and Mr. Boone so naturally their conversation revolved around the railway sights they had shown her father. Both gentlemen were heavily involved in the fledgling rail operation in England and eager to extol the virtues of travel by rail.
    “Carmichael might be induced to travel home with us,” her father boomed from across the table. “Take a look at our plans and make some much needed suggestions.”
    Emily turned to Mr. Carmichael. “Have you been to the United States?”
    “Years ago, during the unfortunate troubles in twelve,” he answered with a wry smile.
    “Unfortunate for you English,” Emily teased.
    “Soundly beaten,” Da added. “Again.”
    “So we were,” Lord Carmichael agreed.
    Emily looked to her left to find Nicholas watching her from across the table where he sat between two pretty blonde ladies, one of whom was eyeing him as a child would a sugared plum. When she caught Emily’s gaze, she narrowed her eyes and laid a proprietary hand on his arm.
    Ah, Emily thought, the next broad mare in line to fill his nursery.
    Miss Veronica Ogilvie, she learned later when the ladies had retired to the parlor for cordials while the men remained at table with their port and cigars.
    Emily sipped the syrupy drink, wrinkled her nose at the bitter memory, and placed it on the table before her.
    “You don’t care for ratafia, Miss Calvert?” Veronica Ogilvie asked as she sat beside her on the settee. She moved in a languid fashion, slow and perfectly orchestrated to ensure that all eyes were upon her. She couldn’t be more than a year or two beyond twenty, yet there was something worldly in her sharp blue-gray eyes, something cunning in the way she pretended innocence.
    “I’d prefer a whiskey,” Emily replied just to see what reaction she would get.
    “Really?” Veronica replied silkily, not the least shocked. “Do all American ladies drink strong spirits?”
    “We’re raised on it,” Emily answered. “Our mammies give it to us when we cut our first teeth and it’s all downhill from there.”
    “And do American ladies all wear breaches?” she asked as the other blonde who had flanked Nicholas at dinner joined them, taking the seat across the low table.
    “We call them britches, and if they run a horse farm they do.”
    “Do you run a horse farm, Miss Calvert?” Lucinda Davis asked, leaning forward.
    “I’d watch how far you lean over, Miss Davis,” Emily said with a smile. “Unless you’d like to give the room an eyeful.”
    “Oh, pardon me,” the girl cried as she straightened in her chair.
    Lucinda was pretty in a typically English way, pale skin, blonde ringlets, guileless blue eyes and two small dimples in her chubby pink cheeks.
    “Honestly, Lucy,” Veronica said disdainfully. “You won’t catch him flaunting your bosom about.”
    “I’m not trying to catch anyone,” the other girl murmured.
    “Good for you. I’d hate to see you disappointed.” Veronica’s voice had taken on a soft husky quality that was at odds with her demure appearance.
    “What makes you think