Chapter 9
For all his proper demeanor and irreproachable manners, Benedict Prescott played with his food.
From her seat at the opposite end of the dining table—an absurdly far distance for a couple dining alone—Violet tracked the motions of his spoon as it cut through the surface of his white soup and swirled through the viscous liquid.
Around and around it went, giving the appearance it would dip to the bottom of the bowl and emerge, ready to rise to his lips.
Except instead of making its final ascent, the spoon sank as if the weight of the rich broth were too much for it to bear, thus capturing it in an unproductive limbo.
Interesting. Indeed, it was almost satisfying to see him commit a slight faux pas. Not that she could in any way fault him for the misstep. While there was nothing outwardly objectionable about the soup, she did little more than stir hers, either.
Why would her stomach not settle? After spending the afternoon in her bedchamber licking her wounds, she’d answered in the affirmative when Mrs. Wheeler came to ask whether she’d be joining Mr. Prescott for dinner, once more ready to face what she’d been avoiding.
The meal had started as well as could be expected.
He’d risen as she walked into the dining room and bowed to her.
She’d looked him in the eye without a single blush and curtsied.
He’d inquired after her well-being, and she after his, and just like that, it was as if the night before had never happened.
But it did happen, her brain insisted on reminding her with each infrequent spoonful of soup she pressed to her mouth, only for it to glide unappetizingly down her throat. Just as her accidental visit to Watley had happened. The stares. The terse words. The rejection.
She abandoned her spoon in favor of her wine goblet, continuing to watch Benedict over the rim. His spoon dipped and swiveled, while his dark eyes studied the broth like it contained secrets to the universe. Dip, swivel, dip, swivel—
Suddenly, those eyes weren’t on the soup but on her. Catching her in the act of ogling.
Wine hit her throat the wrong way, and she coughed, rapidly diverting her gaze to the napkin in her lap. She sank her fingers into it, waiting for the burn to subside, willing herself not to sputter, not to flush, not to do anything that would paint her as less than composed.
“Did you pass a pleasant day?” she asked after a moment, forcing herself to bring her eyes back up to meet his. She tried to appear as if the question had been her reason for looking at him in the first place.
“I did.” His spoon made another swirling motion, and she prepared herself for a return to silence.
Yet instead of bringing his attention back to the uneaten soup, he continued looking at her, and his speech didn’t stop.
“Mr. Hayward—the new land agent—and I made progress with the water meadow. Apparently, some of the drainage channels sustained damage during last year’s heavy rains, and the repairs were never completed.
But thanks to Mr. Hayward’s efforts, we now have a proper team of workmen in place. ”
While it was hardly an enthralling topic of conversation, it appeared to please him, for his shoulders grew less stiff than usual, and the set of his mouth didn’t seem nearly as tight. Why, if she squinted a little and used her imagination, she could almost see what he would look like when smiling.
An action he wouldn’t want to perform in real life, of course, lest he strain facial muscles weak from disuse.
An action that, if performed, would make him very handsome, indeed …
“That’s good news,” she said, shaking off the wayward direction of her thoughts. Ideally, she would say something else. Ask him a question before their fragile conversation lapsed into nothingness. However, the words to follow deserted her, and she busied herself with taking a mouthful of soup.
“I saw you by the river.” His matter-of-fact comment filled the void she’d left, and the weight of his gaze continued resting upon her, allowing her no place to hide. “You were running.”
Drat, he’d seen that? And here she’d deluded herself into thinking she was so inconspicuous that no one had witnessed her blotchy face, flyaway hair, and awkward sprint.
Heat crept toward her cheeks, and she stiffened her spine, trying for all the dignity she could muster. “I was merely out for a walk.”
“Ah.” There was no way he believed her, surely. But all he said was, “You passed a pleasant day as well, I hope.”
No. “Yes.”
He considered the word a moment, as if it contained so much more than a simple affirmation.
As if he were formulating a much more detailed response to give back to her, and it rested on the tip of his tongue.
Ultimately, though, he returned to his bowl, dipping his spoon into the thick white broth. Lifting it … Dropping it … Lifting it …
“Is something the matter with your soup?” she blurted out, unable to keep the exasperation from her tone. If he continued at this speed, they’d be here at the dinner table until Michaelmas.
His body tensed, the sudden tightness of his fingers making the spoon clink once against the side of the bowl before he brought it under control.
“No, not at all.” As if proving his point, he filled the spoon, letting it rise above the surface this time and travel toward his lips.
However, his face had taken on an ashy cast, and the lines around his mouth had grown pinched.
“Not at all?” She mimicked his words, her brows lifting. “I’ve seen children eat mouthfuls of mud with more enthusiasm than you’re displaying.”
He sighed, interrupting his spoon’s journey and abandoning it on the edge of his bowl. “I confess, I don’t have a particular fondness for soup of any kind.”
She tossed down her spoon, pushing her bowl to the side. “For heaven’s sake, then why are we eating it?”
He blinked, looking as though she’d just uttered something nonsensical. “Because dinner is supposed to start with a soup course. Because you planned for it on the menu. Because it is proper—”
“Thomas?” She turned her gaze abruptly from Benedict, catching the attention of the familiar footman who stood in readiness near the doorway. “Mr. Prescott and I are finished with the soup course. Please clear it away and bring out dessert.”
From across the table, Benedict made a sound of mild alarm. “But we haven’t yet had—”
“The dessert, please, Thomas,” she repeated, giving the perplexed-looking footman a reaffirming nod.
Fortunately, that was all it took for him to disappear from the dining room, and the other footman was right behind him, stopping just long enough to scoop up their bowls before hurrying away.
There. That was better. She reached for her wine glass, coolly taking a sip to wash down the taste of soup she hadn’t wanted.
Meanwhile, Benedict shifted in his chair, the lines in his forehead making him appear more pained than ever. “We cannot eat dessert without first having the meat course.”
She shrugged. “The duck will keep until later if you’re inclined to have it.”
“Even so, we cannot.”
Lord, she was sick of denials. Sick of expectations, and rules, and society’s judgments on what was and wasn’t acceptable. “Why?”
“Because …” His voice sounded tight. Unsteady. “Because it isn’t done.”
“Is a magistrate going to burst in and stop us?” She leaned in to rest her elbows on the table, mainly because her mother had always told her she shouldn’t.
“We’re not on display before the queen. Not trying to impress the patronesses at Almack’s.
We’re in the privacy of our own home, beholden to no one’s rules but our own, and if I wish to eat dessert first, I don’t see why I shouldn’t bloody well do it! ”
His lips parted. Snapped shut again. Had she grown a pair of horns?
Sprouted a head of purple hair? He was staring at her as if she’d done both, and he was consequently determining what should be said when one’s wife became cornuted and purple.
But before he could arrive at an appropriate conclusion, Thomas swooped back in with the dessert tray, laying a dish of lemon ice before each of them and a plate of biscuits in the middle of the table.
She nodded her thanks and partook of her dessert without delay, savoring the blend of tart and sweet that rushed over her tongue.
Lo and behold, the room didn’t burst into flames from her scandalous act of skipping dinner in favor of dessert.
The ice didn’t turn noxious and choke her when it hit the back of her throat.
And whether Benedict was satisfied with the visual proof she provided or simply too afraid to contradict a wife whom he may well consider deranged, he cautiously lifted his spoon to his mouth and swallowed a morsel of lemon ice.
The change on his face was instant—no more furrowed brow or pallid skin. Indeed, as he helped himself to several more bites, his mouth loosened enough that she could almost envision his smile again.
“No one dislikes ices,” she muttered, feeling her own lips twitch in kind. There was something fundamentally satisfying about eating lemon ice for dinner. Something even more satisfying about watching her pedant of a husband do the same.
Perhaps from now on, they should devote their time together to the sole task of eating ices.
Maybe then, he’d loosen his cravat and let down his guard, and she truly would see him smile.
Maybe she’d even smile and laugh herself, because surely it was impossible to get crushed by misery while enjoying such a delicious dessert.