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But Lady Penelope was already leaning forward, nearly dipping her abundant cleavage in her fish, to say earnestly to Scarborough, “I’m so thankful you agree, Your Grace. You would not credit it, but Artemis just last week said she didn’t care one way or the other if her tea was taken with blue figured china or red!”
Scarborough inhaled sharply. “You don’t say!”
“Indeed.” Lady Penelope sat back, having delivered this terrible breach of etiquette. “I have both, naturally, but wouldn’t dream of serving anything but coffee in the red, although sometimes”—she peeked coquettishly at Scarborough through her eyebrows—“sometimes I do serve chocolate in the blue.”
“Naughty thing,” the elderly duke breathed.
Maximus did sigh aloud at that, though no one seemed to notice. Was this truly the type of conversation he would have to endure once married? He stared broodingly into his wineglass and then glanced down the table to where Miss Greaves was laughing too loudly at something Mr. Watts had said. Somehow he doubted he would ever grow weary of her conversation. The thought was disturbing. He shouldn’t even be meditating on Miss Greaves—there was no room for her in his carefully ordered life.
“I suppose I ought not to blame poor Artemis,” Lady Penelope said with a thoughtful air. “She hasn’t my refinement—nor my sensitivity.”
Maximus nearly snorted. If refinement was quibbling over the type of china to serve chocolate in, then he supposed that Miss Greaves did indeed lack it—and he for one regarded her the better for it.
He looked down the table again and felt an irrational urge to push poor Mr. Watts out of his chair when Miss Greaves tilted her head toward him to hear something he’d said. He caught her eye briefly and she stared back in defiance, her mouth twisting tragically before looking away again.
Something was wrong. She was leaking emotion.
He sipped his wine, contemplating the matter. It was barely a few hours since he’d seen her in the woods this morning. Then she’d been as defiant as ever, no trace of weakness. The preluncheon entertainment had divided the ladies from the gentlemen. The latter had gone grouse hunting—with dismal luck—while the former had engaged in some sort of party game. Had something disturbed her during the games?
The arrival of dessert caught him by surprise, but he was glad to finish the luncheon. As the guests rose he took an abrupt leave of Lady Penelope and started down the room toward Miss Greaves.
But she was already making her way toward him.
“I trust your hunting went well, Your Grace,” she said when they met in the middle of the dining room, her tone brittle.
“It was awful, as I’m sure you’ve already heard,” he replied.
“I am so sorry,” she said quickly. “But then I suppose you’re not used to hunting in a rural setting.”
He blinked, slow to realize the direction she was taking. “What—?”
“After all,” she said, as smooth as a striking adder, “you do most of your hunting in London, don’t you?”
Mr. Watts who’d been lingering nearby, smiled uncertainly at her words. “Whatever do you mean, Miss Greaves?”
“Miss Greaves is no doubt referring to my duties in Parliament,” Maximus said through gritted teeth.
“Oh.” Mr. Watts’s brow crinkled in thought. “I suppose one could term some parts of a parliamentarian’s efforts as hunting, but truly, Miss Greaves—and I hope you’ll forgive my frankness—but it is an awkward way to characterize such—”
“Then it’s a good thing I wasn’t referring to the duke’s role in Parliament,” Miss Greaves said. “I said London and I meant London—the streets of London.”
Mr. Watts stiffened, his uncertain smile disappearing altogether. “I’m sure you did not mean to insult the duke by insinuating that he frequents the streets of London”—here a ruddy blush rose in Mr. Watts’s cheeks, presumably at the word street and all its connotations—“but you must be aware—”
It was Maximus’s turn to cut the poor man off. “Miss Greaves misspoke, Watts.”
“Did I, Your Grace?” Her chin was raised challengingly, but there was a desperate, vulnerable glint in her eyes. A glint that made him simultaneously want to shake her and protect her. “I’m not at all sure I misspoke. But then if you would like to have me quit this discussion, you know full well what you can do to stop me.”
He inhaled and spoke without thinking, ignoring their audience. “What has happened?”
“You know full well, Your Grace, for what—who—I fight.” Her eyes were glittering and he couldn’t believe it, but the evidence was clear.
Tears. His goddess should never weep.
He took her arm. “Artemis.”
Cousin Bathilda was there, suddenly, beside them. “We’ve a ramble planned to see the Fontaine Abbey ruins, Maximus. I’m sure Miss Greaves would like to ready herself.”
He swallowed, strangely loath to release her. His guests were turning to look, Lady Penelope had a slight frown between her eyebrows, and Mr. Watts seemed quite perturbed. He made himself unclench his fingers, take a step back, and nod. “Miss Greaves. Cousin Bathilda. In half an hour, shall we say? On the south terrace? I look forward to escorting you both to the ruins.”
