Chapter Six #2
Lady Davenport’s deep-set brow gave her the air of someone contemplating world domination.
“My dear favorite cousin’s daughter. Who would think to even question it?
” Sweeping her hand as if introducing Josie to a room full of people, Lady Davenport announced, “Meet my cousin, Miss Josephine Martin.”
Nicolas inwardly moaned. “But what will happen to you when you are found out, Agatha? You risk being ostracized and humiliated.”
“Psh.” The dowager viscountess flicked her wrist. “I am not worried about that. Let me tell you a little secret: there are many who enjoy my eccentricities. They expect nothing less from me.”
“A bloody ball?” Josie quirked her brow, looking as skeptical as Nicolas felt. “I’d rather stab me eyes out.”
“Pardon my skepticism, Agatha,” Nicolas said. “But Griffendale has already seen Josephine, as has the Fancy. They will know she is not your cousin.”
Lady Davenport grinned. “They have seen a sweaty pugilist. I shall introduce them to a genteel lady.”
Josie swallowed her mouthful and winced. “But I don’t wanna be a lady. I wanna be a pugilist.”
“First things first,” Lady Davenport said. “We must get you an audience with Tristan.”
This was the worst plan in the history of harebrained plans.
“Our introductory lesson is that soup is to be consumed from the side of the spoon. Never the tip. Like this.” Lady Davenport lifted the utensil to her lips and daintily sipped.
For a moment, Nicolas thought that Josie might throw a tantrum and toss her bowl across the table. After an interminable silence, she scooped her spoon into her bowl and brought the tip to her lips. Scowling, she reangled it.
The liquid dripped down her chin and plinked onto her lap.
“Bloody friggin’ hell.” Josie blotted at her dress with her napkin.
Jonathon chuckled.
Certain that the frowning countess was about to correct Josie’s language, Nicolas exhaled a long, frustrated sigh.
“Jonathon and Nicolas,” Lady Davenport said as if reprimanding recalcitrant children. “The two of you will treat Josephine like a lady unless you wish to feel my wrath.”
“Thank ye, Agatha. See what I must put up with?” Josie harrumphed. “Always looking down on me because I weren’t born and raised with their advantages.” Shoulders thrown back confidently, Josie angled her spoon correctly. Unfortunately, a sound like a pig at a trough followed.
“Well done,” Lady Davenport said. “But a lady is quiet when she eats. Slurping is considered the height of bad manners.”
Josie’s bottom lip stuck out. “Bollocks.” She sipped again, but this time, she didn’t lap as if she were a barnyard animal.
“Well done, indeed.” Lady Davenport’s palms came together in one demure clap. “A few more things. A lady never fills her plate entirely. A large appetite is unladylike.”
Josie’s lips quivered. “But I’m hungry, I am.”
“Of course you are,” Lady Davenport said. “I suppose all of that punching stimulates one’s appetite. But when you are at the table, you should only eat a small amount of whatever is served to you. Never serve yourself. Wait for one of the footmen or Jonathon to serve you.”
“Bollocks. You mean I gotta wait for a man to tell me what to eat?” Josie asked.
The countess sighed. “’Tis absurd, is it not? But that is the way things are.”
In Nicolas’s humble opinion, it was more likely that Lady Davenport would start shoveling food into her mouth than Josie would learn to eat like a lady.
The viscountess held a finger in the air.
“I will tell you what, my dear girl. Pick at your meals. Then you can go to the kitchen and eat as much as you like when no one is looking. Cook has a small room beside the kitchen so you shouldn’t wake her, and the Rumford fireplace stays lit through the night. ”
Josie pursed her lips. “Maybe just for a day or two, ’cause I’m hungry, I am. I wager you have all kinds of delicious things in your fancy kitchen. But then I should return to me training foods.”
“Of course,” Lady Davenport said. “I will see that you have everything you want and need. Now, everyone, enjoy. But, Josephine, do not eat too much.”
For the first time in his life, Nicolas was aware of how absurd the idea of a lady not eating until she was full was.
The expectation was cruel. Abusive. Disturbing on so many levels.
The very notion made him want to scream.
If Josephine Martin were his wife, she could eat whatever she wanted whenever she wanted.
What in the blazes? His wife? Never. Choking on his mouthful of beef, he gagged and sputtered until Davenport leaped from his seat and slapped him between his shoulder blades.
Nicolas spit the hunk of dislodged meat into his serviette.
Josie and Lady Davenport stared at him, their eyes wide with concern instead of disgust.
“Please forgive me. I’m fine,” Nicolas said, his voice scratchy and his throat raw.
Lady Davenport’s brow lifted. “I do hope so, because we have a busy afternoon ahead of us.”
“Bloody friggin’ hell,” Josie mumbled under her breath.