Then her eyes turned—sharply, nervously—to William. Her breath caught. She flushed scarlet to the roots of her platinum blonde hair. “My lord,” she stammered, her voice pitched too high. “I’m so pleased to renew our acquaintance.”
Her greeting to Charlotte was cool. To Margaret, cooler still. The child lifted her face, hopeful, but received only the barest nod.
Polite greetings exchanged, the party moved inside. The great doors swung wide, and the warmth of the entrance hall rushed out to meet cold-reddened skin. As the Strattons admired the gilt-framed paintings that adorned the walls, Margaret hung back, disappointment etched in her features.
Then she turned and ran—straight to Jane, flinging her arms around her waist. “She didn’t even look at me,” she whispered fiercely. “Mama didn’t even see me.”
Jane bent at once, drawing her close, smoothing her hair with gentle fingers, kissing her brow. “You are seen, darling. Always. I promise you. If you hadn’t looked every inch a proper young lady, your mother would have said so at once.”
William entered last, and paused. Jane knelt on the stone floor, Margaret wrapped around her, the child’s head tucked beneath her chin. She held her without effort, without calculation. No performance. Only warmth.
The sight pierced him—sharp and sudden, almost physical. How could he not compare? Jane, with her constant care, her keen intellect, her innate grace. And Lady Henrietta—pale, stiff, trembling with effort.
It pressed on his chest like a weight, steady and merciless, until he could scarcely breathe.
* * *
The dining room gleamed in candlelight, the long table glittering with cut crystal and polished silverware. Servants moved with practiced ease, clearing the first course and setting down thesecond with polished ceremony. Steam curled from the dishes, the scent of roasted meat rich in the warm air.
Lord Stratton carved into the haunch of venison with visible relish, his cheeks already flushed with wine.
“Ah—this is proper food,” he declared, his voice carrying easily over the table. “Your cook has the right hand for game. This venison is tender, the Yorkshire pudding light as air, the carrots and beans sweet as they ought to be. This—this is the fare of an Englishman.”
He speared a slice, gesturing with it before he ate. “I tell His Royal Highness often enough: a man needs no German inventions to feed him. A proper roast, with proper sides—what else could a king desire? And I may say, the Regent listens. We are close enough that he takes no offense at my frankness. Indeed, he values it.” He laughed, expansive, and drank deep. “Beer over port, pfah! What man of England would choose it?”
Lady Stratton raised her brows with faint disdain. “My husband finds virtue in bluntness. But in truth, French cookery is far superior. It is the fashion, and my daughter is accustomed to it. You should engage a French chef, Your Grace.”
The Duchess offered a small nod, smiling brightly. “But of course. Any man you might recommend, Lady Stratton, would be most welcome at Westford Castle.”
The Duke acquiesced. “The French excel in ingenuity, that must be admitted.”
Charlotte’s lips twitched. Her tone, however, remained mild. “Yet we have fought them long enough to hate their ways. One hopes this new taste for frog legs will not infest our table as well.”
Lady Henrietta, who had sat in breathless silence until then, at last ventured a remark. “But I adore frog legs, Lady Charlotte. You must try them.” She hesitated, then, cheeks floodingcrimson as she turned to William, added shyly, “I suppose the food during the campaigns was dreadful, was it not, my lord?”
They sat opposite each other. She leaned forward in her eagerness, nearly knocking over her glass. William, however, seemed intent on his plate, and answered only when courtesy required it.
“My lady, I endured what was necessary. My duty was the same as every soldier’s—performed as best I could under the circumstances.”
Charlotte rested her chin in her hand, eyes gleaming with mischief. “On the contrary, the Iron Duke is famed for employing the best of chefs for his officers. Some say it’s half the reason they made him a duke.”
Henrietta’s eyes widened, utterly earnest. “Truly? How marvelous! Then you did not suffer dreadful fare after all, my lord.”
“Henrietta, my love,” her mother said with a warning smile, “Lady Charlotte is only teasing you.”
She blushed, but her resolve steeled. She would not give up her chance to impress Lord Blackmeer so easily.
“You are too modest to speak of your duty so, my lord. A paragon of bravery and moral standards. The common man is a beast, after all—it is for his betters to keep him in check. That is what Father always says.”
Charlotte’s laugh slipped free, sharp and bright. “Yes, my dear, all England knows my brother is famed for his virtue. No doubt it is why he was raised to general.”
Even William could not help but chuckle, the irony biting deep. “I assure you, Lady Henrietta, all men are capable of both honor and disgrace, if given the chance and the cause.”
Her brow furrowed prettily. “But surely some men are born better—of superior blood—and that makes them better in moralsas well.” She said it with such unthinking innocence that a silence fell, brief but absolute.
Charlotte set down her fork with a deliberate click. “You have never met the Earl of Ravensby, I see.”
The duchess started, her hand jerking, and a splash of claret bled across the white damask. The footman darted forward at once, but not before the damage was plain.
