Chapter 9 #2
“Most likely,” she replied, lifting a collection of Scottish Folk Tales. “He read everything. Ye need to ken the strategy of an opponent, but ye also need to understand the magic of their land, the power of their stories.”
“Hand me that book, then,” he said, shaking his head, a faint exasperation in his tone. “And any books you would like to have at the house.”
“That is most generous, Yer Grace,” she said, warmth spreading in her chest. “Ye daenae mind if I pick up a few?”
“You are a guest of my house, my lady. Pick up anything you wish.”
Her hand brushed against his as she reached for the book, a bold, deliberate touch that startled her with its closeness but felt right all the same. The warmth of his palm lingered under hers, a jolt and a comfort all at once.
“Let’s make a deal, Yer Grace,” she said, eyes dancing. “Ye read one of me stories, and I can read one of yer choosin’. We’ll find a balance, just like the best tales do. A bit of order and a bit of chaos.”
He looked at her then, the faintest shadow of a smile tugging at his lips.
His voice dropped to that low, rumbling tone that always seemed to vibrate through her chest. “A deal it is, Lady Inverhall.”
The scent of old paper and dust gave way to the sharp, bracing air of the London street as they walked out with their books in hand, giving them to the driver to store.
As they stepped into the waiting carriage, Elspeth’s hand was still tingling from Hugo’s touch. She sat down across from him, opening and closing her hands in her lap.
The small space of the cab felt suddenly charged, the silence between them a palpable thing as she thought desperately of what to say.
“I have an appointment with the land agent now,” Hugo finally said. “But I received word from the driver that he is at dinner. I must meet him at his club in an hour.”
“Oh,” Elspeth said, unsure of what to do with herself. “I can head back to the townhouse, if ye like.”
“We can dine first. There is a new establishment on Oxford Street that is suitable.”
Elspeth nodded, her gaze fixed on the passing shops on Fleet Street. “As ye wish, Yer Grace.”
Elspeth followed Hugo through the narrow doorway into the Oxford Street establishment, her eyes widening at the warm glow that spilled out from polished brass sconces and the soft flicker of candles on each table.
The murmur of conversation and the scent of roasted meats, fresh bread, and pipe smoke enveloped her.
She inhaled deeply, savoring the bustle, the subtle elegance, and the novelty of it all.
Hugo guided her to a quiet corner, away from the main thoroughfare. The table was tucked between tall, high-backed chairs, giving them a measure of privacy.
Elspeth’s heart thudded with a strange thrill, the same delight she had felt in the bookshop, though multiplied by the richness of the atmosphere. She had never been escorted to such a place by anyone, least of all her late husband.
“It is lively,” she murmured, her accent thickening as she leaned slightly forward, straining to hear herself over the hum of conversation. “Are Parisian tables like this?”
“Not quite,” Hugo replied, his gaze sweeping the room with an air of quiet command. “But do not fret. None here pay much heed to others, especially a corner like ours. We may speak freely.”
The waiter appeared, brisk and unobtrusive, presenting the menu to Hugo first.
“I will have oysters for the lady to start, followed by the mutton. As for myself, escargots, then the large chop,” Hugo instructed, his tone measured and authoritative.
“Excellent selections, sir,” the waiter said with a respectful bow before inquiring about wine.
“A bottle of claret,” Hugo added.
The waiter nodded and soon returned, pouring Hugo a taste first, then filling Elspeth’s goblet with careful precision.
Elspeth took a tentative sip, noting the wine’s deep, earthy richness. She allowed herself a small smile, enjoying the comfort of being led and cared for.
Across the table, Hugo perused his first course with focused attention, cutting his chop with precise, deliberate movements. She watched, fascinated, her pulse quickening not from hunger but from the sheer presence of him.
“It is… delightful,” she murmured, leaning slightly closer. “I have never dined in such a place.”
Hugo’s gaze lifted, meeting hers briefly over the rim of his goblet. “I am pleased you enjoy yourself, my lady.” His lips quirked in the faintest smile. “The company must contribute, I daresay.”
“Aye,” she agreed softly, a blush creeping to her cheeks. “A lass could do far worse than to dine thus.”
Her voice carried the lilt of her Highlands tongue, and Hugo’s eyes softened at the music of it. “Your accent suits you. When you speak, it is as though a song rises from your throat with each word.”
Elspeth’s heart stuttered. “Do ye truly think so?” she asked, meeting his gaze.
“You know I do,” he replied, low and certain, and then returned to his meal with the air of a man accustomed to command.
“And what of you, Yer Grace? Is there not a song in yer throat as well?”
“I think if there was a song in my soul, Hell itself would have frozen over by now,” he said as he drowned the last of his glass, before motioning to the waiter.
The waiter came and cleared the table with the same quiet efficiency, and a comfortable silence settled over them. Not awkward, not forced, but intimate, like a shared secret in a bustling world.
“Are ye enjoyin yerself, Yer Grace?” she asked softly as the waiter brought the next set of dishes.
“The company is pleasant enough,” he said drily as he looked at her, his lips twitching as he took another sip of wine. “Let us see what the chef has in store with this course.”
Elspeth savored each bite of her roast mutton, accompanied by button mushrooms, tender potatoes, and buttered carrots. She looked at Hugo, who cut at his oversized chop with the precision of a surgeon. He nodded approvingly with each bite, swiping it in the jus that sat at the bottom of the plate.
“Do you like your meal, madam?” he asked, his gaze flicking to her over the rim of his glass. “I must say, this chop is cooked perfectly. I shall have the chef provide the recipe to Chef Henri.”
“Do chefs truly trade such prized secrets?” she asked, tilting her head as she sipped her wine. “I would think it most improper.”
“Perhaps,” he said, a teasing glint in his eyes. “But they will make an exception for the Duke of Arrowfell.”
His tone sent a thrill racing through her, a flutter of warmth to her very core.
“Is there anything at all ye cannot control?” she asked, her voice low, teasing, yet carrying a hint of genuine curiosity.
“Yes,” he murmured, leaning just enough closer that she felt the subtle heat of him.
“And what might that be, Yer Grace?”
“You.”
Elspeth set her goblet down. “Ye may be a duke, Yer Grace, but no one will control me.”
Hugo’s lips curved into a slow, dark smirk, his gaze lingering over her in a way that made her pulse quicken.
“Ah,” he murmured, voice low and velvety, “Even the most stubborn, my lady, can learn to surrender. Especially when the teacher knows exactly what to do.”
Her breath hitched slightly. “And ye think I am stubborn, then?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.
“Unquestionably,” he said, leaning closer, so close she could feel the warmth of him. “And I assure you—you will discover pleasures in obedience.”
His eyes flicked to her lips, and she felt a shiver run straight to her core.
Her chest rose and fell, a flush creeping across her cheeks. “Ye speak as though all the world bends to your will.”
“Perhaps,” he whispered. “Or perhaps one must only know where to press, and where to leave untouched. I have a feeling, my lady, I could find every weakness you never knew you had.”
Her pulse hammered in her ears. She leaned back slightly, hiding her flush behind a hand, but her eyes did not waver from his. “Bold words, Yer Grace, very bold indeed.”
“Bold enough,” he said, voice dropping lower, thick with heat, “to make you surrender. Willingly. Eagerly.”
Elspeth swallowed, caught between curiosity and desire. “We shall see, Yer Grace. We shall see.”
They passed the rest of the meal in quiet silence before walking out of the restaurant to the carriage that awaited them outside. Her body was humming, not only from the intoxication of such fine wine, but from him. She had felt it as much as her own breath.
“I’ll drop you at the house before meeting with the land agent,” he said as they exited, his voice measured yet casual.
“I thought I was to be your expert?” she teased lightly, a glint in her eye.
“Your counsel is appreciated, my lady,” he said, his tone returning to its customary reserve. “But not required for this journey.”
“As ye wish, Yer Grace,” she replied, a contented sigh escaping her. “’Tis late anyway, and I long to peruse my new acquisitions.”
He inclined his head, the faintest acknowledgment of her words, and the carriage carried them quietly through the streets, the din of London fading behind them.