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“I suppose you won’t believe me if I say I was training to be a nurse and also worked the night shift?”

“Mmm, not quite. My mother makes sure I know which women apprentice at the hospital. Just in case I magically decide to show interest.”

I can’t help myself. “If you’re not interested,” I say, taking a demure sip of coffee, “what are you doing here?”

“I make an effort to attend events when I can because it’s important to my mother.”

“I see.” I narrow my eyes at him, trying to ascertain his real motive.

“You don’t believe me?” He laughs and leans closer, like a confidant. “Just watch. In approximately five seconds, her eyes are going to slip over here, tracking me down.”

I wait, shifting discreetly to look at Lady Genevieve .

“Three…two…”

Her gaze lands on us. It flickers between Matthew and me, close together in our private corner. She offers her son a hopeful little smile, then a tiny wave.

I let out a sound halfway between “oh” and “aw” at the naked optimism in her eyes.

“You think that’s good, shall we give her the thrill of the century? Take a turn outside with me.” He pushes back from the table and offers me his arm.

He’s been a nice distraction, quite unexpected, but Florence is still watching. Not only her scornful eyes but also the hopeful ones of Headmistress Helena and Lady Genevieve are on me. I hesitate, weighing my options.

I don’t make a habit of poking the bear that is Florence Vanderbilt—I understand the game, and I’m far from stupid—but I’ve been disappointing the headmistress every other day lately. And relationships are all about currency exchange.

Without further ado, I grace him with a sparkling smile and slide my arm through his. “Lead the way.”

If I thought the sunlight streaming through the tearoom windows had been abusive, I’m wholly unprepared for the onslaught of the real thing as we promenade outside. I close my eyes momentarily. My free hand strays to my twinging head.

Matthew guides me to the edge of the brick terrace. “I’ve always loved the gardens at the Academy.”

“Yes, they’re beautiful,” I murmur.

When we reach the wrought iron railing, he releases my arm and leans forward. We’re quiet for a few moments, gazing over the sunken courtyard. It’s ringed by blue and purple hydrangea bushes and shaded beneath a cluster of ageless oaks, dripping with Spanish moss.

My muscles unkink as we listen to the bubbling fountain, a trinity of dancing cherubs with water spouting from their mouths and fingers. Sunshine warms my face. Impulsively, I lean on the railing next to Matthew, sagging into the bones of my corset.

He glances at me but doesn’t say anything.

“The sun feels good,” I admit, extending my hands over the open air, stretching and letting light leach into my pores.

His gaze lingers, taking stock of my many rings.

“Curiouser and curiouser.” He turns around, resting elbows and forearms on the railing, his long legs comfortably stretched out. A sliver of suspenders comes into view as his jacket falls open. “The questions are mounting up, Miss Katarina.”

“What questions?”

“Where are you from? What were you doing last night? Are you a pirate?” He nods toward my bejeweled fingers as he asks the last one.

I don’t want to acknowledge the first question, and I certainly don’t want to answer the second, so I settle for the third. “Would you be intrigued if I were? Is that your type—bohemian? Infidel? Nomad, perhaps?”

“Not even a little bit.” He raises his eyebrows in amusement and smiles. “But then again, renegades and grifters aren’t part of my standard social circle.”

Hmm, then you really wouldn’t like my answer to your second question.

In lieu of addressing the irony, I turn the tables. “What about you then?”

“What about me?”

I slip into the mundanely predictable shoptalk. “Where were you educated? ”

“Vanderbilt. I graduated from their medical school three years past.”

Ah, there it is.

All the old money families are connected. No doubt it’s how he knows Florence. I bet her father personally stamped his acceptance to medical school.

I must not hide my distaste because Matthew’s follow-up is prompt. “Do you dislike Vanderbilt? I mean, it’s no Harvard, but—”

“Vanderbilt is lovely.” I offer nothing more. Brevity is truly the most excellent bait.

“But…?” Matthew looks at me.

“But nothing. Harvard is overrated. Harvard men are a dime a dozen, are they not?”

He tips his head back and laughs, the sound ringing through the empty garden. A weeping cluster of Spanish moss billows softly, perhaps on the breath of his laugh. “Now there’s an independent thought if ever I’ve heard one. Please, tell me more.”

A quick shiver runs up my spine. Challenge accepted.

“Let me see…the DaMolin family.” I tap a finger against my lip in mock scrutiny.

“Distant relations to Queen Victoria, but close enough to have been gifted heirloom treasures…rubies, I believe? Crafted into a necklace?” A spectacular necklace, to be precise, worth more than the sum of everything I’ve ever stolen in my life.

The very thought has my sticky fingers tingling. “What were you, first cousins?”

“Second,” he grunts. “But that was lifetimes ago. That necklace is on its third generation now.”

“Fascinating. Old English turned new American in the 1800s. Subsequent fortune made in the news and publishing industries, supported by aggressive investments. And yet you—a newly minted physician —forsake the hallowed Harvard…not interested in the hotsy-totsy cleavage parade in side—”

“Hotsy-totsy cleavage parade?” He chortles again.

“You have a better name for them?”

“I merely find the reference to be of prescient irony.” He nods at my corset-enhanced bustline.

Hook, line, sinker. “So you are interested? Or at least noticing?”

“Come on.” He shakes his head. “That’s not fair.”

I smile deviously. “Who said I play fair?”

“You’re a piece of work, aren’t you?” He finally looks away from me, but he’s grinning. “So that’s it? You think you’ve got me all figured out?”

“Oh, bless your heart.” I toss more chum in the water. “I’m just getting started.”

He looks back to me. “Very well, enlighten me.”

“You work long hours at a thankless job you don’t need, so either you have a savior complex or you’re compensating for something. Youngest child—”

“I never told you that,” he interrupts.

“No, but I remember it now.” I tap my lip again. “Youngest child, second born son…successful older brother groomed to take over the family business…yes…definitely a compensation complex, no doubt about it. Did Mommy and Daddy not love you enough?”

“Okay, Freud. I think we’ll call it there.” He rises from the railing, no longer amused.

I mock pout. “Is our game over? It’s just turning dilly.”

“It really is. Perhaps it’s my turn now?”

A challenge in his eyes grabs my attention. It’s wholly unexpected, a deviation from the usual song and dance.

I chew the inside of my cheek. Part of me wonders what he’ll say; another part doesn’t want to care.

Curiosity wins out. “Sure. ”

“Well, let’s see…” He begins to tick off his fingers. “You didn’t know who I was when I came to your table, which is unusual, to say the least. You’ve successfully dodged nearly every question I’ve asked. And you’re a fourth-year like the others in there, right?”

I nod.

“So together, that means you’ve got your ducks in a row. You’ve got some poor sap in your sights, and by year-end, you’ll have a big sparkling diamond on your finger. Then you’ll move to a sprawling house in the country and make lots of pretty babies. Am I right?”

“Actually, you couldn’t possibly be more wrong,” I answer, annoyed by his shallow appraisal.

“Shocking! A superficial assessment based on assumptions and stereotypes is wrong ?” He looks deliberately at me.

I smile, only a little contrite. “You’re clever. It’s fun.”

“Yeah, it’s been a gas.” He runs a hand through his blond hair as he takes a step back.

But because I understand people—especially men—all too well, I step forward to close the distance between us.

“You liked it,” I tell him.

“Maybe I did.” His smile is coming back, mirth brewing in his blue eyes. “But only a little.”

“You can’t check off the standard boxes with me, like you do with the others.” I jerk my head toward the tearoom. “And it kills you to not have me all figured out. It’s part of your complex, remember?”

He’s silent, listening, watching me closely. Riveted.

Predictable.

“I’m bored,” I say. “I’m going inside. You can watch my backside as I walk away, I won’t mind.”

I hear his surprised laughter, but I don’t look back. I don’t need to .

He calls out just before I slip inside. “For what it’s worth, my mom and dad loved me plenty growing up. And my ‘successful’ older brother is a piece of work. Just like you.”

Eating from the palm of my hand.