Page 14 of Christmas Comes to Little Valentine

She paled a little but nodded, and Nat felt his fingers tighten on the cutlery. Forcing them to relax, he kept his voice light. “Was it terribly bad?”

“Humiliating,” she said, meeting his gaze. “Which I could have endured, but he confiscated my book. I became very angry, I’m afraid, and demanded he return it. He refused. I tried to snatch it from him, and he slapped me and told me I should be sorry if I did not go to my room that instant.”

Nat set down his knife and fork with a clatter, his appetite having deserted him. “Go on,” he said gently.

“There’s not much more to say,” she said, but the way she lifted her chin, the slightly forced sound of her voice, as she tried to steady it, the way she determinedly met his eyes, told another story. “I was frightened, so I went to my room. The next morning I was summoned at seven a.m. I hurried down to Mr Corbyn’s study where he and his wife awaited me. The rest you know.”

“His wife was there? She knew what he was doing?”

“Oh, yes. When I say they were not amicable, I omit to explain that they had a good deal in common, for they were both grasping and avaricious and determined to climb the social ladder. Mr Corbyn is not quite good ton, you see. His wife is better connected but despises him, especially that she was forced to marry him for his money. Yet money and social acceptance is what drives them both, and my book was valuable. I, on the other hand, was not only dispensable but ill-suited to educate their children, being far too clever for my own good. I handed them the perfect reason for throwing me out and keeping the one thing that meant anything to me.”

“But Mr Corbyn’s father, your father’s friend—”

“Died last month,” she said with a thin smile. “Everything dovetailed very nicely for Mr Corbyn, for he never wanted me and only took me on because his father insisted. I think I made him uncomfortable,” she said with a slight frown tugging at her finely arched eyebrows.

Nat did not doubt it. He felt it himself to an extent, the knowledge that this woman was far more than he could ever dream of, that she was quick and clever and beautiful and could likely run rings around him intellectually. Yet he admired her, and whilst he knew it happened all the time—he had seen how even his own friends could mock women they considered bluestockings—he could not fathom how a fellow could despise her for what he found lacking in himself.

Making a mental note to discover whatever he could about Mr Corbyn, Nat noted with some surprise that Miss Bancroft had finished her wine. He reached over to refill her glass.

Conversation halted for a time while the servers cleared the table and brought in the next course. Ramekins of cheese, fried oysters, a basket of sweet pastries, and orange jelly were all set before them. Miss Bancroft refused everything savoury but helped herself to the pastries, which she ate with evident delight, before next attacking the orange jelly. Nat smiled, amused to discover his serious little governess had a very sweet tooth.

“It tastes different now,” she objected, looking at the glass of wine with dismay.

Nat laughed. “Quite so. We ought to have something lighter now. Here, I’ll order something else.”

Pulling the bell cord, he waited for a waiter to appear and ordered a bottle of Monbazillac, a sweet dessert wine he suspected she would enjoy a good deal.

“But why—?” she began, clearly not satisfied.

“Because you have been eating sweet things. The full bodied, rich nature of the red wine goes perfectly with salt and savoury, but you’ve been eating pastries and now your tastebuds crave that sweetness and find the wine sour.”

“I see,” she said, looking at him with fascination.

Nat smiled, suddenly uncomfortable with the scrutiny, and felt relieved when the servant reappeared promptly with the wine. Meg watched with interest as the waiter uncorked the bottle and poured a small sample into a glass, awaiting Nat’s approval. Once he had deemed it acceptable, the waiter filled their glasses and went out.

“Now, try another pastry with this wine,” Nat suggested.

“I ought not. I have eaten more than sufficient and—”

“Sufficiency be damned,” Nat said cheerfully. “You’ve been half starved, by the sounds of it. You ought to enjoy good food when you get the chance. Come along now, select another.”

She smiled suddenly, dimples flashing, giving Nat a glimpse of the carefree girl she might have been if things had been different. Taking the pastry between her elegant fingers, she took a bite and chewed, closing her eyes and sighing as she savoured the sweet treat. “What now?” she asked eagerly. “Do I drink?”

Nat found it hard to look away from her, delighted by her uninhibited enjoyment, and charmed by her enthusiasm to learn something new. No doubt she was just the same if you handed her some dusty old tome by some long dead scribe, all eagerness and anticipation. Something remarkably like desire stirred in his belly and he instructed himself sternly not to be such a blackguard.

“You drink,” he agreed. “But take a small sip and hold it in your mouth for a moment, then swallow. Allow the flavours to warm in your mouth.”

Her eyes widened as she swallowed. “It’s completely different!”

Nat smiled. “Certainly. What can you taste?”

She frowned at that. “What do you mean? I taste wine, sweet wine.”

“Really, Miss Bancroft, I did not expect such an intelligent creature to be so unimaginative. What can you taste in the wine?” Nat took a sip himself, closing his eyes and allowing the flavours to burst upon his tongue. “I taste apricots, perhaps a hint of pineapple.”

“You’re bamming me.”

Nat opened his eyes to find her watching him, a tinge of colour at her cheeks and curiosity in her eyes.