“‘My son,’ Lord John was saying. ‘William, Lord Ellesmere.’ He eyed her narrowly, as though daring her to say anything. ‘Might I present Mr. Roger MacKenzie, William? And his wife.’
‘Sir. Mrs. MacKenzie.’ The young man took her hand before she realized what he meant to do, and bowed low over it, planting a small formal kiss upon her knuckles.
She nearly gasped at the unexpected touch of his breath on her skin, but instead gripped his hand, much harder than she’d meant to. He looked momentarily disconcerted, but extricated himself with reasonable grace. He was much younger than she’d thought at first glance; it was the uniform and the air of self-possession that made him seem older. He was looking at her with a slight frown on his clear-cut features, as though trying to place her.
‘I think …’ he began, hesitant. ‘Have we met, Mrs. MacKenzie?’
‘No,” she said, astonished to hear her voice emerge sounding normal. ‘No, I’m afraid not. I would have remembered.’ She darted a daggerlike glance at Lord John, who had gone slightly green around the gills.”