Chapter Five
Miss Scarlett Perkins had never been so affronted in her life.
As the older, plain, on-the-shelf sister of the pretty, witty, and rich Miss Tilly Perkins, Scarlett had been overlooked many times.
She had had men spill punch on her whilst en route to Tilly, so intent were they on giving a refreshment to her sister.
Men had asked her to dance just to learn more about Tilly’s likes and dislikes.
They had even sent her flowers and small gifts in the hope that she would put in a good word for them with Tilly.
But she had never before experienced anything like Mr. Malcolm Brown.
First, there had been that meeting. Men in London always made it clear that Tilly was their first object. But at least the men who were tasked with bringing her into dinner understood that they needed to pretend to find her tolerable.
Clearly, however, Mr. Malcolm Brown had been so taken with Tilly’s beauty that he had been too hopeful.
This man, arrogant because he was so good-looking, had assumed that the young, beautiful woman would be his to lead into dinner.
And that the older, plain, plump woman would be left to someone else.
He probably couldn’t believe that Mrs. Salisbury and his sister had directed him to lead in such an unremarkable as Scarlett.
Well, she wasn’t about to let Parkhorne Hall insult her any longer without retaliation.
She could forgive the exile to a hunting lodge.
But she could not forgive the contemptuous snub from the devastatingly handsome Parkhorne brother that she hadn’t even known existed until earlier this evening.
So she had needled him.
Or had tried to, anyway.
It had been difficult. Especially when her hand on his arm had her feeling all sorts of unwelcome sensations.
His body, large and powerful, much more so than the average society gentleman in London, had her wanting to lean closer.
Nonsense, of course.
Plain spinster sisters such as herself never found themselves in the arms of men like Mr. Malcolm Brown.
And this man was clearly not tempted by her.
And that was before she had done her level best to imply that he was a raw countryman and that time spent on this estate was a personal hardship for her.
Now, they sat next to each other at the table in cold silence.
To her left was Mr. Severn Westmore and—to his right—Tilly. She wouldn’t have minded conversing with Mr. Westmore, but he was deep in conversation with her sister, apparently bent on doing his duty by his brother by not letting his favorite be neglected.
In short, her situation was hopeless. She had no one to speak to but Mr. Malcolm Brown and speaking further appeared impossible.
Well, she saw no reason to open her mouth. She was not a member of the family. And she didn’t need to win the favor of any young men. They could sit in silence, for all she cared.
The soup had arrived—a delicate-looking green pea.
Determined to ignore the man to her right, she picked up her spoon and began to eat.
“Oh!” she exclaimed.
She had had pea soup many times before at entertainments. It was a popular choice, given that it was always tasty and—as any hostess knew—not too expensive.
But this soup was beyond exquisite.
“Do you like it?”
She was surprised to hear the sound of his voice and turned, rather abruptly, toward him.
“It is rather good,” she said mildly.
“I am glad to hear it,” he said gravely, as if pea soup were a serious business. What was he implying? Was he mocking her?
“Did you prepare it yourself?” she shot back tartly. She wasn’t going to treat him with civility, not when he had made clear that she was beneath his notice.
“No,” he said, as she watched him take an extraordinarily long time to pluck up his own spoon from his place setting. “I did not.”
Only heavy silence followed this statement. She took another sip of the soup and reveled in its flavors—fresh, sweet, and yet a little savory. Wonderful.
“I did not make it,” he said. “But I am responsible for the farm attached to the estate. We grow almost all that appears on the Parkhorne table. The peas are ours.”
Responsible for the farm, she thought, casting her eye over him once more and then forcing herself to look away.
Was that why he was so broad and strong?
He gave the appearance of the kind of gentleman who would take a hands-on approach to farming.
She knew the type. They tended to think they knew more than the rest of the world, especially about agricultural matters, and were very overbearing about it.
She was sure Mr. Malcolm Brown fit this profile.
“I see.” She sniffed, feeling embarrassed now about her hearty enjoyment of the soup.
She wished she had been able to stifle her first exclamation of surprise. She hadn’t meant to compliment him. He was probably used enough to compliments.
“I understand that in London, pea soup is often made from dried peas. To save expense. But here there is no reason we may not use fresh. Since peas grow so abundantly in Somerset. Especially at Parkhorne.”
“And so I have your ingenuity to thank, Mr. Brown, for this delicacy?”
She heard him shift again and—damn him—she couldn’t resist taking another spoonful of that delectable soup.
“I suppose. But it was my sister who explained that fresh pea soup would be regarded as a surprise to visitors from London. It was only then that I suggested it.”
While she hadn’t thought it possible, she felt a warmer feeling toward him at this moment. It was endearing to imagine this man, so large and handsome, trying to help his mother and sister come up with the best meal to serve their guests.
“Well, it is very good.”
He only nodded, but she sensed that he was pleased.
They spoke hardly at all until the fish course arrived. But when it did, she asked him, “Did you also have a hand in this, Mr. Brown?”
He ducked his head. “In a sense, Miss Perkins.”
“And what sense is that?”
His large hands moved with slow uncertainty over his plate, as if he were trying very hard not to make a mistake. She was close enough to him at the table to catch his scent, which had a woodsy, earthy quality. Most London men wore cologne. But this man, she was sure, did not.
He paused, as if he wasn’t certain he should say more.
“I suggested the salmon. It is particularly fresh in these parts because we are so close to the Bristol Channel. Beatrice—my sister—Lady Leith—” He seemed to lose his train of thought in this warren of appellations for a moment, but then he found himself.
“She said that salmon would be regarded as luxurious. Even though here, at this time of year, even poor men catch and eat it.”
“You seem to hear a good deal about London from your sister.”
“Aye,” he said, with a bob of his head. “And my other siblings. They are all there often.”
As the fish course was cleared away, he addressed her again. “Will you take wine, Miss Perkins?”
It seemed to only now have occurred to him to offer her wine. The others around them had been drinking it for some time.
“Yes. I would.”
A servant stepped forward and filled both their glasses. They both took a sip without looking at one another.
The next course quickly followed. Unlike the other two, which had featured one dish, this one had many—Scarlett spotted at least one side of beef, two whole chickens, a goose, and a side of mutton.
This spread was accompanied by a range of vegetables, including roasted potatoes, asparagus, and several savory tarts.
“May I … may I—” Mr. Malcolm Brown began.
“Yes. Please.”
He reached toward the platter nearest to them and began serving her, and then himself, and then repeated the ritual with the three other dishes nearest.
She appreciated that he actually gave her abundant servings of each dish.
London gentlemen were rather stingy in that regard, she found, because they had been so repeatedly told that to overlade a lady’s plate was vulgar.
This truism left Scarlett—who, she had to admit, always had a very good appetite—with portions more suited for a china doll than an adult woman.
“Do you know what this dish is, Mr. Brown?” She pointed down to a rustic-looking fricassee on one side of her plate.
He bobbed his head in that slow, characteristic way again.
“Rabbit and mushrooms. It is traditional to Somerset. But I doubt it is a regular dish on many London tables.”
She speared a bit of it with her fork and plunked it into her mouth. It was very good—savory and deep and surprising.
“Do you like it?”
“I do,” she said. “It is unusual—but satisfying.”
He blushed a little at that. She wasn’t sure why, however.
“It is my favorite. My sister, again, insisted on having it at the table, even when I told her that it would be too rustic for London people. But she said visitors to the country like to encounter such novelties.”
“It’s true,” Scarlett said. “At the very least, they can return to London and talk of what barbarities they experienced while traveling.” She gave a quick smile to counteract the pucker she saw appearing above his brow.
“But in this case, I will have no barbarities to complain of. This dish is delicious.”
Their talk continued in this vein across the next two courses—both abundant and decadent and filled with foodstuffs that Mr. Malcolm Brown revealed an intimate knowledge of—and Scarlett actually found that she was enjoying herself.
When the dessert course arrived, a board of cheese was laid near them, and Mr. Brown informed her of all the different types as she sampled them.
Somerset, he informed her, was famous for its cheddar.
She had known this, of course, but she hadn’t known much about the process that he had gone on to describe—how they aged it in caves and how Mr. Brown himself had procured this particular cheddar only ten days ago for the purposes of this house party.
They finished off their meal with a plate of strawberries and cream, which they both agreed was as delicious and simple as a dessert got.
He rarely smiled over the course of this dinner, and neither did she. But he definitively did so when she bit into a strawberry and emitted a small moan. He then informed her that they grew them here, at Parkhorne, themselves.
When Mrs. Salisbury stood, signaling that it was time for the ladies to retreat into the drawing room, she felt much better about Mr. Malcolm Brown.
“Mr. Brown,” she said, nodding at him before rising.
“Thank you, Miss Perkins,” he said. “I am so glad—that you—well—about how much—that you like—that you like to eat so much.”
Her blood ran cold at the words.
He was mocking her.
He had seemed a kind, albeit nervous, man throughout the dinner. Exceptionally handsome, yes, but not as arrogant as one would expect.
But then she thought of how at every turn, he had encouraged her to eat more, how he had seemed so amused when she had bitten into that strawberry.
He was calling her a glutton.
Whereas men in London were worried about implying such a thing, he had piled her plate with food and now was laughing at how much she had eaten.
“I was wrong, Mr. Brown,” she said quickly, sure the color had flushed all the way into her cheeks. “It turns out that I will have plenty of barbarities to complain of when I return to London.”
And with that, she swept herself up and out of the room.