“Nah, nowt interesting.”
“Nowt?”
“Aye, Ridges, the head groom, is teaching me how to speak northern.”
“Ridges! I can never find the man. What’s he like?”
“Bit…strange. Says he’s a roman.”
“I think you mean Romany.”
“Maybe. Quiet though and the horses love him. I’ll tell him yer wanna chat.” Billy patted his coat. “That’s as good as we’re gonna get,” he said, clambering down from the chair.
With that fulsome endorsement, Lucas strode forth with some difficulty to the door and descended the stairs for pre-dinner drinks.
Rosalind wanted to yank that damn silver-blond hair.
Yes, it was childish, but Lady Hurst kept…touching Lucas.
“Oh, Lord Helmdon,” the woman wittered, “do tell us about your medals.”
At first, she had thought it was accidental but at the fifth touch of Lady Hurst’s skin against his, she knew the woman was a harlot.
Lifting her lashes surreptitiously from her plate, she saw Lucas tense and realised that one of the woman’s hands was missing. Surely she wasn’t… Lucas shifted his chair and attempted to converse with the lady to his right.
Shehadbeen touching him under the table, the fawning cat.
“I’m sure you have a plentiful collection, my lord.” Lady Hurst leaned forward undeterred, her green shawl falling off…again.
Rosalind’s own gown shimmered under the candlelight, a beautiful deep scarlet with copper trim, and she had been pleased with her appearance, although she was aware that her bosom was not exactly plentiful. Lady Hurst wore a pearl evening gown that clung closely to bountiful curves.
The shawl was draped in elegance over the harlot’s shoulder and every time she shrugged, which was often, it slipped down, necessitating its prompt retrieval, a retrieval that always encompassed the brush of a white-gloved hand against Lucas’s arm.
She could hardly blame Lady Hurst as the Major eclipsed many of the men at the table. She suspectedhewould say his scars precluded that but his imposing, obviously unpadded, breadth of shoulder joined with his rugged demeanour quite took a lady’s breath away.
His hair shone a tawny-gold, burnished strands gleaming in the candlelight. A vague attempt had been made to tame the unruly mane but, every now and then, a stray lock flopped over his forehead and was impatiently swept back by one of those substantial hands.
They were agile but rough with blunt fingers ending in square-cut nails, a fine sprinkling of bronzed hairs gracing the backs. Every time his hand clenched the wine goblet, she could almost feel the inherent strength as though he had clenched his hand around her nape, her wrist…
A superfine deep-green tailcoat adorned his person with a white lawn shirt just visible between waistcoat and cravat. The waistcoat itself was exquisite, an even deeper green than his coat, but with a thin black stripe running vertically through it and embroidery that caused many a studied look.
On any other man, it might have appeared foppish but on Lucas’s frame, it only served to highlight his masculinity. Snowdrops. They were delicately sewn upon the front in silks of white, pale green and yellow, their dainty heads peeking out from behind his coat every time he leaned forward to take a sip of wine.
Lucas caught her eye, and she looked away. She wasn’t even going to think about the rest of him, safely tucked beneath the table.
“I hear the prince thanked you personally, that must have been a great honour.” Lady Hurst purred, adjusting her bodice to better display the diamond pendant.
“Indeed,” Lucas murmured.
“As a grateful Englishwoman, I would also like to thank you personally.”
Rosalind fingered the butter knife. She was jealous, of course; she had no trouble admitting it.
Lucas didn’t look best pleased either. He mumbled platitudes but avoided saying much. Lady Hurst was very pretty, however, and often men didn’t seem to need much more.
At least the dining room looked splendid. The magnificent mahogany table gleamed red-brown, but Rosalind couldn’t help wincing at the number of candles adorning it. At the asylum, she and Mrs Tadlow had often huddled close to their single candle, the rancid smell of tallow permeating their clothing. In this house, Benedict purchased the finest beeswax and the pleasant odour fragranced the air. Cook’s choicest dishes graced the table and an ice sculpture of a stag scowled at the guests from the centre, slowly shedding its antlers in the candlelight.
The guests were a hotchpotch of some twenty or so people, and the conversation grew and withered around the appearance of the various courses.
