Chapter 13
After her time spent at Leadenhall Market with Jeremy, Linnie would never be the same. The joy of dashing about like children in an adult game of hide-and-seek would live within her mind until the day she was an old woman, with white hair and her life about to be behind her.
Every thought since had included him.
She yearned to see him.
She’d even taken her maid first to Leadenhall Market and then Hyde Park, more than half believing she’d find Jeremy there. All that remained outside the poultry shop was the memory of that day together.
That was until this morning, when a mysterious package arrived at the kitchens—a cage containing a familiar chicken and a lone note.
And seated at the McQuoid-Smith dining table, while her family passed around jests about the ladies’ shopping escapade, Linnie used the tip of her fork to push a pea around the perimeter of her porcelain dinner plate.
Cassia, from where she sat nearer the head of the table, cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled to make herself heard over the boisterous Christmas evening meal.
“I do feel I should point out this particular conversation would be vastly different had I been the one lost in Leadenhall Market, and there’d be a great deal more distraught mamas. ”
Linnie’s fork scraped damningly along the porcelain. Splendid. The last things she required from her nosy family were questions.
“Yes,” Quillon hollered from the far end, where he sat between Arran and Oleander. “Because whenever you go lost, you end up married to a marquess. Linnie got a chicken.”
Mortified, Linnie audibly groaned. She’d been wrong. Humiliation was up there with her earlier worry.
Fortunately, her rackety kin drowned out the sounds of her humiliation.
“That’s beyond the line, Quill.” Cousin Arran slapped his hand against the back of his younger brother’s head.
“Oww!” Quillon groaned and ducked in his seat. “I’m just pointing out when Cassia ran off—”
Arran gave the boy a second, not-so-subtle tap. “Yes, we all understand, little brother.”
Giving up, a now sullen Quillon dropped his elbow onto the table and stabbed a carrot on his plate.
Across from him, Oleander too abandoned etiquette and matched his closest cousin’s slumped posture.
“Well, I, for one, think it’s honorable and romantic Lord Culross had a”—Myrtle scrunched her nose up—“chicken delivered to Linnie.”
Lord Culross, the beneficiary of Cousin Myrtle’s praise, bowed his head.
“Many thanks, Your Grace, but I would be remiss if I took the blame.” He furrowed his brow and seemed to realize his mistake.
“Credit?” By the halting quality of his voice, it was clear he was firmly of his former opinion.
“I must claim ignorance as to its unexpected arrival.”
But Linnie knew.
Jeremy.
“She,” Linnie found herself murmuring around a swell of emotion. “The chicken is a ‘she.’” And the brief note she’d come with had left Linnie as to no doubt of the sender’s identity.
A Linette for my Linnie.
Worry not. Tom has found a home with me.
I look forward to the day when we may reunite them as one . . .
Her skin prickled.
She glanced up.
Lord Culross peered at her through hooded lashes. The piercing gaze he fixed on Linnie contained a keen knowing; his stare was one that said he knew her secrets.
Linnie was spared from having to speak further on Jeremy’s gift.
The countess stopped conversing with the Duke of Aragon to scold her son. “Elbows off the table, my dear.”
Hiccuping, Linnie’s mother ceased speaking to a suddenly relieved-looking Lord Winfield, who put all his attention back where it always was—on his wife, Cassia.
Mama followed her sister-in-law’s suit. “Yes, yes, Oleander.”
The exception between Linnie’s mother and the countess? Mama’s cheeks were flushed with merriment—and from too much mulled cider and claret—as they’d been since Linnie and the rest of the girls came filing in after their return with the dashing Lord Culross.
“Elbows off the table, my precious lad,” Mama called down.
For emphasis, she jabbed her spoon Oleander’s way, and in the process lost her hold on the utensil, a detail also lost on their mother, who’d already returned her focus to the Duke of Wakefield—poor fellow.
Mama’s spoon flew across the table and caught Campbell in the side of his head. “Ouch!”
The speed with which he recovered and resumed conversing with their eldest brother, Brone, who’d only just arrived that night with his beloved wife, Cora, was testament to the absolute norm of the chaotic meal.
The countess signaled to the servants, who proceeded to clear the main course.
Lord Culross leaned close to Linnie.
She tensed, bracing for a line of questioning.
“I attributed the zeal of my first dining experience to the unconventional nature of my arrival, Miss Smith—”
“Our arrival,” Linnie amended, awash with relief.
“Yes, of course. The two cannot be separated.” His magnificent blue eyes sparkled with their usual good humor. “But I’m coming to believe this might be the norm for mealtimes.”
“The norm?” Linnie looked confusedly at the earl. “To what, specifically, are you referring, Lord Culross?”
Color suffused his cheeks in an endearingly boy-like blush. “I . . . that is to say . . .” He snatched at his white cravat.
Linnie winked.
Lord Culross stilled.
Then, tossing his head back, he laughed. “You’re a treasure.” His amusement proved as contagious as his smile, and Linnie found herself joining in.
Their shared mirth came together as naturally and easily as a song.
Linnie could not take her eyes from him. Heat radiated throughout her chest.
For all the gossips’ whispers of the earl’s roguish appeal, they’d not captured the truest parts of who he in fact was.
Lord Culross’s humor was not the cynical sort, but a jovial, pure kind, one he did not closely guard but freely shared. And she found herself welcoming how it made her feel . . .
How it makes you feel?
Or how he makes you feel?
Linnie waited for the sense of guilt such an admission to herself should bring, and this time, didn’t come.
Lord Culross’s gaze locked with hers. His blithesome amusement abated.
Something in the air shifted. Unblinking, unmoving, they stared at one another.
Even when solemn, the sides of his aquiline nose to the corners of his well-defined lips revealed faint laugh lines of a man who found the good in life.
His gaze slipped a fraction; it fell to her mouth.
Two servants reached between them and set dessert plates in front of Linnie and Lord Culross.
The world found its equilibrium.
With her fingers still faintly trembling, Linnie collected her spoon.
“To your earlier assessment, my lord, regarding the McQuoid-Smith gatherings,” she said as she swiped some Bavarian cream from the top of her Charlotte Russe cake.
“Yes?”
“I regret to inform you it was, in fact, wrong. This is certainly not the norm.”
Placing his elbow upon the arm of his dining seat, Lord Culross rested his chin atop his hand. “Oh?”
“I fear McQuoid-Smith gatherings are a good deal louder and a great deal more undisciplined. If you are to be a member of the family”—she patted his hand—“consider yourself suitably warned and prepared.”
The smile froze on her face.
What did I just say?
Linnie snatched her fingers back. “Not that I referred to your joining the family through . . . through . . .”
Lord Culross leaned over his propped hand. “Yes?”
“Because of . . .”
In a reversal of their earlier roles, Linnie floundered while Lord Culross appeared to be very much enjoying himself.
Alas, Linnie couldn’t seem to help herself. Her tongue and mouth moved with a will of their own. “What I was referring to is your friendship with Arran, which means you would, of course, be welcome to join any and all future gatherings.”
He opened his mouth to speak.
“If you wanted to, of course, my lord.”
His gaze locked with hers. “I would like that very much, Miss Smith,” he murmured, his baritone as smooth and rich as the finest McQuoid-Smith Christmas cocoa.
Unnervingly, the sound of his voice left Linnie as discombobulated as his smile.
Andromena called down from her end of the table. “What would you like, Lord Culross?”
The spoon slipped from Linnie’s fingers, and even though she fumbled for her glass of claret, Lord Culross maintained his urbane smoothness.
“Miss Smith suggested a game of snapdragon be added to the table,” he explained. “And I responded by saying I would enjoy that immensely.”
Linnie swallowed a groan. No. No. N—
All eyes went slowly to Linnie.
Sinking in her seat, she drank her claret.
Lovely.
“Did I say something wrong?” Lord Culross asked out the corner of his mouth, his voice nearly imperceptible.
“Oh, yes.” Linnie didn’t hold anything back. “Absolutely, you did.”
His eyebrows lifted a fraction. “Oh.”
The gentleman looked so completely crestfallen, she took mercy.
Linnie gave him a gentle smile. It was hardly Lord Culross’s fault.
“Might I give you another word of warning about the McQuoid-Smith family, Lord Culross?”
“I am all ears.”
“They are, too.”
“Oh, yes, Lord Culross,” Myrtle intoned, favoring the befuddled Lord Culross with a gentle smile. “McQuoids, we hear everything.”
Linnie nudged her chin in the young duchess’s direction. “Case in point.”
It appeared she was going to escape this after—
“What about snapdragon?” Quillon whinged.
The McQuoid-Smith dining table was where hope went to die.
“Ooh,” Campbell exclaimed with an exaggerated excitement. “That is right. We were talking about a game of snapdragon?”
“Stop,” Linnie mouthed.
Alas, to the McQuoid-Smiths, the word “stop” had become the equivalent of a dare.
“I don’t think I will, little sister.”
Linnie discreetly stuck her tongue out.
Her vexatious older brother returned the offense.
“Oh, might we play, Aunt Catherine?” Andromena clapped her hands. “I’ve never played!”
“Yes, you did,” Meghan reminded. “It’s just you don’t recall, as you were young at the time.”