Page 17 of The Winter Companion

Well, not quite on her own.

As she followed in Mrs. Bainbridge’s wake, she encountered Mr. Cross.

He stopped in the doorway.

Clara stopped, too, looking up at him in frank expectation. A gentleman would offer his arm, or at least say something.

Mr. Cross did neither.

Which meant absolutely nothing. Not when simple words seemed to evade him.

She waited, nevertheless. Far longer than she’d ever have waited for any other man. So long, she feared she was on the verge of making a ninny of herself. “Well,” she said. “I suppose I’d better—”

“May I escort you in?” he asked. The words were blurted out with something very like anger.

She stared up at him, her brow drawn. Was he angry? His jaw was taut, his throat working on a swallow. Her gaze dropped briefly to his hands. Sure enough, she found one clenched into a fist at his side.

No, it wasn’t anger. And if it was, it wasn’t directed at her. She suspected it may well have been directed at himself.

A dozen questions sprang into her mind. She yearned to ask them.

But this was neither the time, nor the place. And besides, it was none of her affair. He was none of her affair.

This wasn’t real life. It was only a holiday interlude. A brief three weeks spent among strangers. She was obliged to be civil, and that was all. To presume anything more would be impertinent. Dangerous.

She took his arm. “Yes. Please.”

Neville took another drink from his wine goblet. He’d never seen the dining room at Greyfriar’s Abbey look so fine and festive. The polished mahogany table was adorned with winter flowers, beeswax taper candles, and colorful assortments of red berries and fruit. The silver had been polished until it twinkled, and the crystal glasses sparkled in the glow from the magnificent gasolier that hung overhead.

Wine and champagne flowed freely, a complement to the asparagus soup, braised leg of mutton, and roasted fowl with chestnuts.

He wasn’t much of a drinker. Strong spirits only ever served to make him more muddled in thought and speech. Lady Helena had seen that he was supplied with watered wine. It was a kindness—one of many Lady Helena had done him since her arrival in North Devon last year.

Had she thought it a similar kindness to place him next to Clara Hartwright at dinner?

It didn’t feel kind. In fact, it felt rather like a torment.

He cast Miss Hartwright another fleeting, sidelong glance. She was slicing into a piece of mutton with her knife, cutting off a delicate, bite-sized portion.

Mr. Hayes sat on her opposite side in his wheeled chair. Neville had heard the two of them conversing about landscape paintings.

It was the way of things at such dinners. Neville had learned that much during Lady Helena’s tenure. A guest was expected to speak to the people on either side of him. To make polite conversation. Talking across the table was frowned upon, as was ignoring one’s seatmate completely.

Neville didn’t mean to ignore Miss Hartwright. Not really. It was just that, every time he tried to say something to her—no matter how innocuous—he couldn’t manage to form the words. It was bloody excruciating.

Far better to avoid her, if he could. That had been his plan, anyway.

Until he’d seen Lady Helena’s seating arrangement.

He picked up his fork and knife and attacked his roasted fowl.

Miss Hartwright chose that moment to turn her attention away from Mr. Hayes. She looked at Neville, her chocolate-brown eyes shining in the candlelight. “Mr. Cross, I must thank you again for assisting me with Bertie this morning.”

Neville lowered his fork and knife back to the table. “Is he…?”

“He’s resting in my room.” She put down her own fork, giving him her full attention. “I wonder…where do you advise I take him for his evening constitutional? I daren’t let him wander too close to the cliffs.”

“There’s a g-garden at the back of the house.” He flinched to hear himself stutter. It was a consequence of his nerves, and of speaking in anything more than short, uncomplicated sentences.