Page 13 of Miss Devon’s Choice

Instead, she strained her ears in an attempt to catch any conversation he might have with the ladies on either side of him. Lady Mostyn was nearly as chatty as her daughter, however, which meant she spent a great deal of time speaking and required little to no response from her dinner companions. Virginia appeared to be taken up in conversation with Lord Berwyn.

Rebecca bit the insides of her cheeks and forced herself to attend to her food. The dining room was too loud, the table too crowded, and her curiosity too unsatisfied for her to enjoy a single bite.

When the meal at last closed and the ladies rose to adjourn to the parlor, Rebecca cast one last look over her shoulder.

Christian Hundley wasn’t even looking in her direction. His eyes were lowered to the table. Her spirits drooped. Did he not feel any curiosity about her, as she did about him? Rebecca turned away and followed the other ladies from the room, her place at the back of the line. Whatever was she going to do to capture his interest?

Chapter Five

Christian raised his eyes before the doors shut behind the ladies, finding the curling chestnut hair of Miss Devon for a mere instant. She walked with the posture of a princess, very differently from when she’d fled at the sight of him in the entry. Had she regained her courage then?

It matters little. Even if he did intend to wed her. He mustn’t let what she thought of him, one way or the other, touch him.

“Dashed bad luck, Lord Easton, to break a wheel in this weather,” Lord Berwyn said, reaching for the decanter of port placed before him by a footman. “Though I would’ve stayed with the carriage, I think. Brave of you to press on, for the countess’s sake.”

Christian did not reach for the glass set on the table for him. He cared too much about keeping his wits about him to do more than take a glass of wine with dinner.

“Putting out a hostess’s table is never a wise thing,” the other baron, Mostyn, agreed readily. “But our host and hostess are graciousness themselves.”

The earl saluted the gentlemen in acknowledgement of the compliment. “I hope you will still think us gracious by the time you leave. If the rain continues as it has, this could be a very soggy sort of holiday.” The earl met Christian’s eye for a moment, his expression interested but not rude.

They had spoken briefly in the hall of what ought to be done for Christian’s carriage and servants. All had been arranged speedily. Christian could not decide whether he liked the earl or not. Lord Annesbury had an air of authority about him, his eyes betrayed no emotion but a great deal of intelligence, and he’d been everything polite.

Dinner had been difficult to get through. The countess, Lady Annesbury, had asked what questions a good hostess might, but very much left him to his own devices as the baroness clucked at him. Had the baroness said anything of sense, it would’ve been easier to endure, but as it was he felt something of a headache beginning just behind his eyes.

His grandfather expected him to make a good impression, given that these men each held some level of importance in the political arena. They were all Whigs, at least in word if not always in their manner of voting. The earl himself took great interest in the rights of the manufacturers. Christian knew the marquess and Lord Berwyn both lived in northern counties, where industrial interests were on the rise. He wasn’t certain about Lord Mostyn. The man hadn’t a very eventful political career that Christian could recall.

Parliament may be the place where arguments were made, but British policy had long been decided upon in the country houses of the peers and gentry, at hunts and parties just like this one. The earl was firming up alliances for the next session.

“What think you on the state of our economy, Annesbury?” the marquess asked, bringing Christian’s attention back to the conversation. “With Napoleon defeated, our soldiers returning home, which way do you lean on our growth?”

“I am watching carefully on all fronts,” the earl answered, tone cautious. “Our men come home, but to what? My crops have suffered these last two seasons and this one promises to be no better. The unseasonable coolness has meant my harvests are small and my stores shrunken.”

“But trade with the Continent will resume unhindered,” Lord Berwyn said, leaning back in his seat, his rounded stomach protruding above the table’s edge. “That must count for something. All these young sailors coming home could help grow our merchant fleets back to the levels they were at before the war.”

“And what are we to trade?” Lucas asked. “For years our manufacturing has been focused on tools of war, feeding and clothing soldiers. What goods do we possess that will be in demand in France, Spain, Italy?” The earl turned to Christian. “What do you think our greatest asset would be in trade, Lord Easton?”

Although it surprised him to be addressed, Christian was careful not to let it show. “I think our manufacturing abilities will be the greatest export,” he answered confidently. “Our steam engines, for example, are the finest of their kind in the world. You have all read of Puffing Billy? It has replaced horses for pulling trams. But think of all the other uses of such a machine. Transportation of goods, transportation of people on a larger scale. Our exports will not consist of our food, but our intelligent designs.” He closed his mouth over the last word, his eyes flicking from one man to the other.

The marquess seemed impressed as he addressed his son. “See here, Sharpeton. Someone else who likes those steam engines of yours.”

The young Lord Sharpeton raised his eyebrows. “They are the way of the future, I am certain.”

Christian noted the earl watching him, however. The earl had that look of interest on his face that was as much polite as sincere. Christian wasn’t sure if the man approved of his answer or not, nor did he really care.

After another few minutes of talk, which had come back around to the weather and the events planned for the house party, the earl came to his feet.

“I think the questions of our itinerary are best presented to Lady Annesbury. Let us rejoin the ladies and learn what fate holds for us should the rain stop.”

The men all stood, moving toward the door. Christian stayed behind the group. His weariness from travel, his irritation with idle conversation, and his reluctance to be among a group of strangers all served to make his steps heavy. He’d rather seek out his bed than submit himself to more stares and conversation.

Falling under the deep brown eyes of Miss Devon again would not help ease his discomfort.

The earl had hung back in the hallway, Christian saw, and fell into step beside him, moving just as slowly. “Lord Easton,” he said. “I appreciate your attendance to our party, especially given the short notice of your invitation.” He spoke with sincerity.

Christian closed his gloved hands, forming the politest response he could. “I thank you for the invitation.” He ought to say more, but what? He neither wished to indicate his grandfather had forced him to come, nor that he was grateful for the opportunity to lay eye on his future bride. Nor did he wish to lie and act as though he looked forward to any part of the two weeks of torture awaiting him. “I have never been in this part of the country.” That was safe, at least.

“Indeed. I hope you will be able to enjoy some sport while you’re here. I understand you enjoy rowing.”