***
Dinner that evening altered the very atmosphere of the house.
Dominic had grown accustomed to solitude—to meals taken alone, or in the quieter company of Thomas and Miss Weston. He had forgotten what it was to sit at table with Julian Pierce.
Julian talked.
Of York and London, of a horse he meant to purchase, of a scandal involving a viscount’s wife and an unfortunate bear that had disrupted a garden party. Of Parliament, and crops, and books. He spoke with the expansive ease of a man convinced that silence was a failing to be remedied.
And somehow, he drew the others into it.
Thomas, seated beside Lorraine at the far end—Dominic having insisted upon his presence—watched him with open fascination. Julian, sensing it, turned his attention upon him.
“And you, Master Thomas—what do you make of Yorkshire? A trifle bleak, is it not?”
“It is not bleak,” Thomas said, with unexpected firmness. “There are birds. Many birds. Miss Weston and I study them.”
“Birds! Admirable. Which is your favourite?”
“The kestrel. It can stay still in the air. His Grace showed me how—using its tail.”
Julian’s brows rose. He glanced at Dominic with deceptive mildness. “Did he indeed? How very un-glacial of him.”
“I merely mentioned—”
“He knows a great deal,” Thomas pressed on. “And he gave me a horse. A wooden one. His grandfather made it. It is called Captain. After my papa.”
Julian looked again—more closely this time. Dominic turned his attention to his plate.
“A fine name,” Julian said, more quietly. “Your father was an excellent man. One of the best I knew.”
“You knew him too?”
“I did. Once lost five shillings to him over a wheel of Spanish cheese. He ate the entire thing. Was ill for three days. Your mother was not pleased.”
Thomas laughed—a bright, unguarded sound.
“Truly?”
“Nearly fatal. And I have seen battle, so I do not make the claim lightly.” Julian smiled. “I believe I still owe him those five shillings. Perhaps I shall settle the debt with you.”
“Yes, please!”
Laughter moved around the table. Even Dominic felt something shift at the edge of his mouth—quickly suppressed.
Julian noticed—Julian always noticed—and filed it away behind that easy smile.
It was Lorraine, though, who drew Julian’s most sustained attention.
She had dressed with care—a deep green gown, simple but well cut, her hair more precisely arranged than usual. She did not look like a governess tonight. She looked—dangerously—like she belonged.
“Miss Weston,” Julian said, turning toward her as the second course was served, “Dom tells me nothing of consequence, so I must look elsewhere for intelligence. How long have you been at Rovewood?”
“Nearly six weeks, my lord.”
“Six weeks—and you have not yet fled. Remarkable.”
“I find the moors beautiful, in their way. And the household has been most kind.”
