Page 16 of Christmas Comes to Little Valentine

Nat gazed at her, astonished, but she had not finished.

“Though there is also a story that suggests it comes from Pliny the Elder. He said it to encourage his men to head for Pompeii on a rescue mission upon the erupting of Vesuvius. On that occasion it did not serve him, however, for he perished in the attempt.” Her expression became rueful once more as she regarded him, amusement glinting in her grey eyes. “I’m afraid that’s not a terribly good example, is it?”

Nat huffed, running a hand through his hair. “Well, let us hope that our fate is otherwise.”

She sighed before gathering up her discarded gloves. “Indeed, Mr Ashford. Well, I thank you for a most… interesting and educational evening.”

“You’re not leaving already?” he objected as she got to her feet, not yet ready to bid her goodnight.

“I think I had better,” she said, pulling her shawl closer around her shoulders. “The temptation to drink more wine is one I must resist.”

“Well, that’s easily done.” With that, he picked up the bottle and set it on his side of the table, filling his glass. “You may have no more, Miss Bancroft, but I shall supply a pot of tea or coffee, as you prefer. How’s that?”

He watched indecision flicker behind her eyes and smiled; for all her cleverness, she was remarkably easy to read. She wished to stay and talk with him but thought it improper and reckless.

“Well, tea then, please, but just one cup. Poor Betty is all by herself, which must be rather dull.”

Nat got up to pull the bell cord once more. “I think poor Betty is having a wonderful time.”

Miss Bancroft nodded, for it was clear Betty was enjoying herself enormously. “She is a dear creature, so pleased by everything.”

She gazed down at the table with a frown, tracing an old scar in the polished wood with her finger. “If I am to remain down here a little longer, I believe we ought to make good use of the time. Your family will not believe us if we do not know more of each other. A whirlwind romance is one thing, but we cannot be entirely ignorant of each other’s likes and dislikes.”

Nat shrugged, happy enough to play along. “As you like. I enjoy good wine, good food, music, the theatre, dancing, convivial company—” He made a sweeping gesture with his hand, meant to encompass all that sort of thing, but Miss Bancroft only frowned at him.

“Everyone enjoys good food, and one presumes no one likes bad wine. What kind of music, what kind of theatre? You say convivial company, but what does that mean?”

“Good Lord, you are determined to make this a slog, aren’t you?” he objected, suddenly on edge, for he could hardly explain that opera dancers and rogues were the kind of people he usually spent his time with.

“No. But I don’t want vague answers, I need to understand you.”

Those intelligent eyes gazed at him, as if she might unpick the stitching on his brain and peer inside. It was unsettling. Nat scowled. “You first. What do you like?”

She scrutinised him for a moment longer, dissatisfied by this change in tack but she did not object. “You know everything there is to know. I like to read, to learn, to debate. I do not know if I like company, convivial or otherwise, or dancing, or the theatre, for I have not had the chance to discover. I like music but have only heard what my father or I could play on our piano, which was not a terribly fine instrument. I also enjoy good food and wine,” she remarked somewhat smugly.

Nat snorted. “Do you enjoy novels?”

“I do,” she admitted at once. “Though I have read very few. We joined a subscription library, but in recent years could not afford the cost. I confess I read as many novels as possible whilst it lasted, for Papa did not really approve and would never have bought such titles, but he allowed me to read what I wanted via the library, which was a blessing. Do you read, Mr Ashford?”

Nat frowned, wishing he had not asked the question. “I find it difficult to sit still for long,” he said, evading a truthful answer and aware his tone was somewhat brittle.

“Yes, you are perhaps more of a sporting gentleman?” she suggested, an encouraging expression on her face that put his back up at once.

“Yes, you know, the kind who excels in the field and can’t string an intelligent sentence together,” he said bitterly.

Miss Bancroft blinked, obviously taken aback by his sudden aggressiveness. “I said nothing to suggest that was what I thought. If you find insult in my observation, I apologise, but none was intended.”

Nat gritted his teeth. “I beg your pardon. That was damned uncivil. It’s just… well, my family admire my ability in the saddle, and I excel at most sports, but they seem to think that’s all I’m good for. I am advised to settle down with a wife and breed horses, or something gentlemanly of the sort.”

“I see.”

Miss Bancroft was watching him. He could feel her gaze upon his face, but he did not wish to meet her eyes. Absurd to be unnerved by a bluestocking who had never been in society.

“And what should you do if given the choice?”

Nat hesitated. The urge to tell her was tantalising, but he did not wish to look a fool, especially as he was beginning to realise just how sharp her mind was. She might think him a dreamer, building castles in the sky. It would be too galling if she looked upon him with the same pitying disgust as his father had the one time he’d tried to explain his interests.

“Nothing. It doesn’t matter. Wine, women and song. That’s me in a nutshell,” he said, lifting his wineglass and drinking whilst doing his utmost to ignore the penetrating way she was looking at him.