Chapter 3
Henry hadn’t spoken a single word since sitting down.
Not one. Which was absurd, given the only thing expected of him at a dinner party was actually speaking.
But every time he opened his mouth, his brain offered comments like “Quite many forks, aren’t there?
” or “Do you think the chandeliers are heavy?” and he had the good sense to keep those thoughts to himself.
To his right sat Mrs. Jane Sims, an older widow who seemed utterly fascinated by her beef. She’d been cutting the same piece of meat for approximately five minutes, her attention so focused, Henry wondered if she was trying to communicate with it.
To his right sat Lady Margaret Foley. She seemed far too composed for someone so young. Her mourning blacks made her skin look like porcelain and her eyes—
He shouldn’t be noticing her eyes. She was a widow. A grieving widow. Probably devastated. Definitely out of his reach.
Except she didn’t look devastated. She looked… trapped. Henry knew that expression. He’d worn it himself every day for the past six weeks. The careful blankness. The performance of being fine when everything inside you was screaming.
He watched as she reached for the centerpiece—an elaborate tower of fruit—and plucked an apple from near the top. She turned it in her hands, frowned slightly, then set it back.
The gesture felt significant, though he couldn’t say why.
She murmured something to Lord Cavendish on her other side—the man who’d made a fuss about the seating arrangement earlier. Then she turned her attention to her plate.
Henry should say something. Anything.
He turned to Mrs. Sims. “The beef is quite tender.”
Nothing. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment.
He tried again, louder. “I’ve always been fond of—” No, wait, that was worse. Don’t mention being fond of things. Dukes weren’t fond. Dukes were… what? Appreciative? Discerning?
“—turkey. And mutton.” Stop talking. “But I like beef, too.” Argh! Stop! “Never seen this much meat at a time, though.”
The words hung in the air like an accusation.
Henry closed his eyes. Wanted to sink through his chair and disappear beneath the table. He’d just told a widow he’d never seen this much meat before. At a charity dinner. For fallen soldiers. He was going to purgatory.
“She’s rather deaf.”
Henry’s eyes snapped open.
Lady Margaret leaned closer—close enough that he caught the scent of lavender and something else. Soap, maybe. Something clean and simple that had no business making his pulse stutter.
“I beg your pardon?” he managed.
“Mrs. Sims.” Margaret’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial murmur. “She’s rather deaf. If you want to converse, you’ll have to get her attention first. Then speak quite a bit louder. Though I should warn you, she still won’t respond. She never does when the dinner is good.”
Henry stared at her.
She stared back and bit her lower lip. So sweet. Her eyes weren’t just brown, they were amber in the candlelight. Warm and alive and dancing with something that looked suspiciously like amusement.
“You’re telling me,” Henry said slowly, “that I’ve been attempting to discuss meat with a woman who cannot hear me and wouldn’t respond even if she could.”
“Precisely.”
“And you let me continue.”
“I was curious to see how long you’d persist.” Her lips twitched. “You’re very determined. It’s admirable.”
“It’s mortifying.”
“That too.” She took a sip of wine, and he could have sworn she was hiding a smile behind the glass. “If it helps, I don’t think anyone else noticed. They’re all too busy pretending to enjoy the aspic.”
“It’s terrible.”
“Unspeakably so,” she agreed. “I’m fairly certain it’s holding a grudge.”
Henry laughed. The sound came out too loud, too surprised. Several heads turned in their direction.
Margaret didn’t seem to notice. Or if she did, she didn’t show it.
“So”—she settled back in her chair with an air of someone preparing for a long negotiation—“since Mrs. Sims is unavailable for discourse, and Lord Cavendish has decided I need protecting from the scandal of male dinner companions, I suppose that leaves you and me to discuss the evening’s offerings. ”
“Are you always this direct?”
“Only when I’m exhausted by pretense.” She paused, and something flickered across her face—vulnerability, maybe, or regret. “Forgive me. That was inappropriate.”
“It was honest.” Henry believed truth should be paramount in conversation. He found himself leaning toward her before he realized what he was doing. Close enough to catch the scent of lavender. Close enough to be improper.
He didn’t lean back. “Does that mean you’re partial to beef? Since we’re being honest.”
She considered this with the gravity most people reserved for affairs of state. “I quite enjoyed the mutton. The vegetables really complement the dish.”
“The vegetables.”
“Yes.” She met his eyes. Held them. “Specifically, the peas.” She burst out laughing, then instantly buried her mouth in her napkin.
“The peas,” he repeated, trying hard to suppress his mirth.
“They’re hopeful.”
Henry’s brain stuttered. “I’m sorry?”
Must. Not. Laugh.
“Peas are hopeful. They’re small and round and ridiculously cheerful despite being surrounded by thick gravy and chunks of mutton. They have no business being that optimistic. And yet.” She gestured to her plate with her fork. “There they are. Stubbornly bright green.”
He stared at her.
She stared back. Chin lifted. Daring him to laugh.
He wanted to kiss her.
The thought arrived fully formed. He was sitting at a charity dinner next to a grieving widow, and his first coherent thought was that he wanted to kiss the woman who had opinions about optimistic vegetables.
“You think I’m mad.” She pressed her lips together and folded the napkin in her lap with exaggerated care.
Gorgeous lap.
Stop!
“I think you’re magnificent.” The words escaped before he could stop them.
Her eyes widened. Color flooded her cheeks—the pink spreading across her porcelain skin made his mouth go dry.
“I meant…” He tried to recover. Failed spectacularly. “That is. Your perspective. On peas. It’s very… comprehensive.”
“Now you’re mocking me.”
“I’m really not.” He placed his fork on the table before he dropped it.
“Lady Margaret, I’ve spent six weeks being told how to stand, how to speak, which fork to use, and why my opinions on everything from crop rotation to coal mining are suddenly vitally important despite the fact that I know absolutely nothing about either.
No one has been honest with me since I inherited a title attached to more rules and burdens than can be reimbursed by fortune. Not once.”
Leaning closer he could see the gold flecks in her brown eyes.
Near enough to see gold flecks in her brown eyes.
“And then you—a woman I’ve known for all of twenty minutes—just told me that peas are hopeful.
You meant it. You weren’t performing or posturing or saying what you thought I wanted to hear.
You are just… real.” Wonderfully real and sweet… he stifled the rest of this thought.
She went very still. “Your Grace—”
“It’s the most refreshing thing that’s happened to me in weeks.” His voice dropped. “Possibly months. Possibly my entire life.”
“You can’t mean that.”
“Why not?”
“Because we’re strangers. Because you’re a duke and I’m nobody. Because I just compared vegetables to emotional states and that’s—”
“Brilliant,” he interrupted. “It’s brilliant. You’re brilliant. And I’d very much like to know what you think about carrots.”
A laugh burst out of her. Surprised. Genuine. The kind of laugh that lit up her entire face.
His chest did something complicated.
“The carrots were acceptable,” she managed, still smiling. Still looking at him like he’d done something unexpected. “The turnips were ambitious but misguided.”
“Devastating critique.”
“I’m very discerning about root vegetables.”
“I’m learning that.” He couldn’t stop looking at her mouth. The way it curved when she smiled. “What else are you discerning about?”
“Most things.” Her smile turned wry. “It’s terribly inconvenient.”
“For whom?”
“For people who prefer I be appropriately grateful and quiet and—” She stopped. Bit her lip.
“And what?” he pressed on.
“Appropriately sad.” Her voice went soft. “Widows are supposed to be sad. Not opinionated about dinner.”
The words hit him square in the chest because he understood. Completely.
“I’m supposed to be confident,” he said. “Dukes don’t fumble with cutlery or ramble about mutton to deaf women. They certainly don’t find themselves completely undone by a woman’s thoughts on peas.”
Her breath caught. “Undone?”
“Utterly.” He shouldn’t say it. Absolutely not. Said it anyway. “You’ve wrecked me, Lady Margaret. I’ll never look at a pea the same way again.”
She laughed again. Softer this time. Her hand came up to cover her mouth, but not before he saw the full force of her dazzlingly gorgeous smile.
Beautiful. She was beautiful when she set aside her grief for a moment.
“You’re wicked,” she said.
“I’m honest.” He held her gaze. “Which I’m told is refreshing.”
“I never said refreshing.”
“You implied it. With your face.”
“My face implied nothing.”
“Your face implied several things. All of them are encouraging.”
Pink flooded her cheeks again. She looked down at her plate. But she kept smiling. Victory surged through him.
“Tell me something else true,” he said. “Something you have never told anyone.”
She looked up and studied him with those amber eyes, clearly deciding whether to trust him.
“I hate aspic,” she whispered conspiratorially. “Everyone pretends to love it, but it’s absolutely vile.”
“Agreed.” He leaned even closer. Near enough that anyone watching would definitely notice. “I thought I was the only one.”
“You’re not alone.”
“Neither are you.” The words came out heavier than he intended, like they meant more than words could convey.
She went very still, her eyes searching his face.
Around them, the dinner party continued. But Henry couldn’t hear it anymore. Couldn’t see anything except her. This woman, who thought peas were hopeful and hated aspic and looked at him like he was worth knowing, not just a title.
“Your Grace,” she said softly.
“Henry,” he corrected her, because for this woman, he didn’t want to pretend to be Dashfield. Whether improper or scandalous, he just wanted to be Henry to her. Just his name.
“Henry,” she whispered, barely audible except to him. It sounded like the beginning of something.
Around them, the dinner was ending. Servants cleared plates. Guests rose from their seats, the hum of conversation shifted. Anticipation built.
The swell of music floated in from the ballroom—strings tuning, a pianoforte testing notes as the musicians prepared for the evening’s dancing.
Margaret heard it, and her eyes flickered toward the sound. Something crossed her face—longing, maybe. Or fear.
Henry’s heart kicked.
Now or never.
“Margaret,” he said. Her name meant more to him than her title, although it was scandalously inappropriate of him to use it. She rewarded him with a dark-eyed batting of her lashes that made any scandal worth it. “Will you dance with me?”
Her head snapped up to his. Eyes wide. He’d startled her.
The music grew louder. The opening strains of a country dance drifted through the doorway, beckoning.
“I should warn you,” he continued, “I’m absolutely terrible at it. I’ll probably step on your feet. Possibly embarrass us both. Definitely confuse a quadrille with a waltz at some point.”
Her lips curved. “That’s quite a disclaimer.”
“I believe in honesty.”
“So I’ve noticed.”
The music grew louder. More insistent. As if the very air between them was pulling them toward the ballroom.
“So?” He stood. Offered his hand. “Will you risk it? Will you dance with a duke who doesn’t know what he’s doing?”
She stared at his hand. At him. At the doorway where music and candlelight and possibility waited.
For a breathless moment, she didn’t move.
Then slowly—so slowly—she placed her hand in his.
Heat shot through him at the contact. Her palm fit perfectly against his.
“Yes,” she said. Her voice steady despite the color in her cheeks. Despite the way her pulse jumped visibly at her throat. “Yes, Henry. I’ll dance with you.”
The music rose, and everything else fell away.