Page 10 of Ella’s Desire

“Hunting,” she clarified. “Do you not find it cruel?”

If he was offended at having received the first meal in its entirety without a fruit, broth and a lighter meat served first, he offered no comment. He sliced into the venison at the joint, carving out the choicest, tenderest piece. “I only find it cruel if one does not intend to eat what they have caught, and if they aren’t good hunters and the poor beast suffers.”

“And what of the animal that’s been hunted down?” she demanded.

He slid the best cut of meat onto her trencher and her words suddenly went dry in her mouth at the show of kindness.

“If the hunt is over quickly, the beast does not suffer. Not with anticipation, nor with fear or pain.”

A snuffling sound came from beneath the table and the head of a gray hunting dog lifted to reveal a pair of hopeful brown eyes.

“Hardy, be gone with you.” Calville gently nudged the dog. It didn’t move. “Hardy. Now.” The dog continued to stare up at Ella.

“Hardy, go lay down,” she said. The beast obediently turned and flopped to the ground with a grumble of disappointment.

Calville nodded with approval. “I’m impressed. Hardy doesn’t listen to anyone.”

“I hold great affection for animals,” she said pointedly. Then she cut a piece of the venison he’d given her, pulled it from her blade and slid it into her mouth.

“Like deer?” he asked with a smirk.

She nearly choked on the mouthful she was swallowing. “Do you have any siblings?”

“A sister.” His reply was amicable enough, and he did not seem to mind the shift in conversation. “She’s several years younger than me.”

“What does she enjoy?” Ella picked around the meat and plucked a bit of cabbage.

“I confess, I do not know.” He cut off a piece of meat for himself. “I haven’t been able to spend much time with her.”

Ah, a perfect topic to prod. Ella tilted her chin in the haughty way she’d seen the ladies at court do, the one time that she’d been there when she was a girl. “Men often do not take the time to learn of a lady’s interests or pursuits as they are often too busy engaged in their own amusements.”

He placed a bite of food in his mouth and chewed, his expression one of consideration. Something nudged Ella’s foot. Most likely Hardy. She ignored it. The second nudge was more of a jab. Surprised, she looked up and found Marin’s hard gaze fixed on her, sharp with warning.

“I don’t disagree,” the earl said at last. “I’ve seen deplorable examples of exactly such things.”

“Have you not taken an interest in your sister’s life, then?” A full-on kick this time from Marin, directly to the shin. Pain bloomed just below Ella’s knee and she discreetly put her hand over the injury under the table. No sooner had she done so than a warm tongue lapped greedily over her fingers. Now that was definitely Hardy.

“Alas, my inability to visit her was due to circumstances outside of my control.” Calville appeared genuinely regretful. “I’d like to hear more about the books you and your sisters wrote.”

Ella took a big gulp of wine, but it did little to help her swallow her disappointment. He hadn’t appeared to be at all perturbed by her goading, and he hadn’t once even bothered to let his gaze settle on her ears or the straining waistline of Cat’s dress. Now she was simply being a deplorable person, eating food she now felt guilty for consuming and wearing a kirtle she could scarcely move in.

Her plan was not working.

4

Bronson hid a smile at Ella’s antics. It was quite obvious she was attempting to lure him into a heated discussion of some sort. In truth, he was enjoying it, this sparring of words, like verbal chess.

She’d worn her hair up that evening, the glossy mass of wavy hair bound up with a bit of ribbon. While he’d enjoyed seeing her hair unbound and falling softly around her face, he equally enjoyed being able to see the sensual curve where her long, graceful neck met her shoulders. He wanted to brush his lips over that spot and feel her shiver with pleasure.

Her dress, however—that was a curious thing indeed. It was obvious the green kirtle was ill-fitted and left her movements hindered. Her firm bosom strained at the front where the neckline cut into the soft flesh and pressed tempting mounds of creamy skin. It looked terribly uncomfortable. His hands itched to unlace her dress, to free her poor breasts and ease their discomfort with caresses.

“We have been writing them for some time,” Lady Catriona piped up.

He dragged his gaze from his intended wife and focused on the younger, blonde sister.

“The books,” she said. “It was Ella’s idea to write our own stories. First from what we’d heard from troubadours that came through, but then we started our own. We all like those better, as much as we enjoy the French books Papa brings us sometimes. Ella is the best at coming up with ideas.”

“Aye,” Ella replied. “Stories of love.”