“The Highways Act was brilliant, the Hospitals Act overdue, and the East India Trade Act a nightmare,” she replied without hesitation. “If you didn’t spend so much time dithering over the Postage Act, perhaps youcouldaddress poverty and exploitation. If I have to hear one more speech about the post—”
“Boring, is it? The reason we’re always on about postage—”
Thus began the liveliest discussion Lawrence had ever had outside of Parliament. Great-Aunt Wynchester was right: Her niece knew more about current issues than half of the peers. And she could boast significantly better attendance.
Even when he’d let his membership in his club lapse to save money, he’d continued to debate ideas at private homes and political dinners. But never had any of his compatriots alternately complemented and skewered his ideas with Miss Wynchester’s surgical precision.
Perhaps because they werelikehim, he realized. An entire room of peers shouting sweeping generalizations based on a superficial understanding would either send her into paroxysms of laughter or tears.
How he would enjoy frequent heated discussions with Miss Wynchester. She was brilliant. Thrice already he’d reached for his pen to jot down a salient point he needed to consider or have investigated in a more comprehensive manner.
They were both startled by the arrival of the tea service.
Miss Wynchester reached for the pot. “Aunt prefers lukewarm tea, so I’ll pour hers now. It’ll be just how she likes it when she returns.”
Lawrence suppressed a shudder. Lukewarm tea was worse than hot tea, and cold tea was an atrocity worse than that. He might actually attend the occasional tea party, if the teapot were make-believe.
Because he was paying more attention to the kissable curve of Miss Wynchester’s cheek than what she did with her hands, she filled his cup with tea before he could stop her.
He recoiled from the steaming brown liquid in horror.
Bloody hell. He’d offended her more than enough for one day. He would have to drink the tea.
Perhaps if he wasted enough time preparing it, she and her aunt would finish before he was required to sip any. Cheered by the thought, he began sliding lumps of sugar into his cup one by one, making each brief journey from dish to tea last as long as possible.
Miss Wynchester watched him over the rim of her own cup. “Is this anotherhaut tonprofligacy ritual?”
He was so startled, he dropped his spoon. “What?”
“If you want to eat the sugar, eat the sugar. No sense turning perfectly good tea into marmalade to prove that you can. Sugar is expensive. You’re a duke; you’ve got lots of it. I’m suitably impressed. Just drink your tea.”
“I wasn’t showing off my…excessive consumption.” Except he supposed he had been, if inadvertently. Why did all of his attempts to make a positive impression end up having the opposite effect?
She pursed her lips. “Then what are you doing?”
He appraised the contents of his cup.Wasit possible to turn tea into marmalade? A dash of lemon, four hundred and thirty-two lumps of sugar…
He pushed his saucer away. “Can you keep a secret?”
“When I want to.” She lifted her brows. “Do you have a good one?”
“A terrible one,” he admitted. “One I hoped to take to my grave. A duke must maintain a certain reputation. Especially when clawing out of his father’s shadow and trying to avoid ridicule at all costs.”
She set down her cup. “All right, I’m intrigued. I promise to keep your dirty secret.”
He hoped so. “I hate tea.”
She blinked. “What?”
“I hate tea.” He shuddered. “It’s as British as I am, but I cannot stand it. I add sugar to mask the flavor, but that only makes it horrid and syrupy instead of horrid and bitter.” He swallowed. “No one knows but you.”
She gazed at him.
He turned red.
She burst out laughing. “You…haven’t heard many dramatic confessions, have you.”
“Itisdramatic,” he protested. “Hating tea is my deepest shame.”
