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“And what terms are those, exactly?”
“What is keeping you?” called Cat from up ahead, sounding much put out.
He leaned closer. “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until Monday to find out,” he whispered, grinning. Turning to face her sister, he called back, “Nothing, poppet. Just a question your sister had concerning the renovations in the east wing.”
Poppet? Harriett ground her teeth as Cat giggled—she was acting, of course, but her coquettish manner with him still rubbed her the wrong way. She didn’t care to explore why it bothered her—but it did. A lot.
“But I thought we were to discuss something besides that, Your Grace,” whined her sister. “Did you not give me leave to choose the topic of our dinner conversation?”
“Indeed I did, and I am nothing if not a man of my word,” he said, shooting Harriett a loaded glance. He hooked her arm and pulled her along. “Onward, Lady Harriett. Dinner awaits.”
Given no choice, she acquiesced and led him to the dining room. As they entered, Harriett looked upon the spread with pride and a pang of sadness. The way the table had been set, one might think King George himself were to arrive at any moment. Their best china and silver lay gleaming upon their best tablecloth alongside their best crystal. All of it would be gone by this time next year, thanks to Papa’s mounting debts. She determined to enjoy it while she could, despite the fact it had been dragged out to impress her enemy.
“No, Catherine,” said Papa as her sister made to sit beside their guest. “You shall sit here beside me.”
Cat’s wore her disappointment openly, but she did as she was told beneath their father’s stern gaze.
Harriett would applaud her acting skills later. What had Manchester meant by “terms”? Her mind came up with all sorts of disastrous scenarios, some more calamitous than others—those were mainly inspired by the way he looked at her now as she made her way around the table to take the seat beside him. Her pulse jumped as he stepped in ahead of the footman to hold out her chair for her.
Taking her place, she refrained from turning to smack his hand away when while pushing her in toward the table his knuckles brushed the back of her neck. Gooseflesh rose all over, and an involuntary shiver ran through her. The faint smirk he wore as he sat down beside her said her reaction had not gone unnoticed.
Wroth, Harriett fixed her gaze on the plate before her, watching as the soup was served. His sleeve brushed against her arm. Again she shivered. Hoping to avoid a repeat, she leaned away a bit. But it was hopeless.
Who the devil had placed these chairs so bloody close together? It was a large enough table, yet here they were all crammed together at one end with barely enough room to breathe without making contact with some part of one’s neighbor.
Her suspicious gaze flew to her father, who sat at the head taking what seemed to be far too much pleasure in his soup. For pity’s sake, the man was humming under his breath as he ate!
She jerked a little as something touched her foot beneath the table—another foot. Turning, she impaled Manchester with a glare that should have sent him sprawling to the floor in agony. The blackguard ignored her and looked at his soup bowl as though it were the most interesting thing in the world.
Concealed by the table, Harriett lifted her heel and brought it down atop the toes of the offending foot in a grinding motion. Nothing. She rose slightly and placed all of her weight on that heel, disguising the true nature of what was going on by pretending to adjust her skirts.
A soft hiss of indrawn breath was Manchester’s only indication of pain.
Triumphant, she settled back down—and with a tiny yelp immediately shot up again. He’d pinched her on the derriere!
Bending, he retrieved his napkin from the floor. “Pardon me, madam.”
Her temper flared as his shoulders began to shake. She sat and without bothering to conceal the motion this time kicked him with all her might.
He let out a muffled grunt.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Your Grace!” she exclaimed. “Please pardon my clumsiness—I’m afraid the heel of my shoe has become caught in my hem.”
“That’s quite all right, Lady Harriett,” he replied, his laughing eyes further infuriating her. “It is a price I am happy to pay to be in your delightful company. May I assist you in disentangling your foot?”
Harriett’s cheeks burned. She hoped Manchester’s shin bruised to the marrow! “No thank you, Your Grace. I have managed to free it.”
“I’m glad you discovered it before attempting to leave the table,” he said with mock sincerity. “Putting one’s foot in the wrong place can be very dangerous.”
“Oh, it can indeed,” piped Cat as the servants replaced the soup bowls with a course of perfectly roasted duck. “History is full of examples of people who have fallen to their deaths over a simple misplaced step. Harriett has always been a bit accident prone. I worry every time I see her approach a stair in haste. Remember poor Lady Dudley.” She shook her head sadly and sighed. “Tragic.”
Harriett whipped up her napkin just in time to catch a dribble of wine that escaped her mouth, while Manchester inhaled a bite of duck and was subsequently overtaken by a fit of coughing. She was going to kill Cat later! Her sister along with everyone else knew full well the late Lady Dudley had been allegedly pushed down a staircase by her enraged, cuckolded husband. Her pretended ignorance was beyond the pale.
“Yes, we should all be a bit more careful, I suppose,” said Papa, his face red. “So, Your Grace, what did you think of our Catherine’s drawings?”
Manchester smiled. “I prefer the one with the octagonal design. I think it would fit well with the style of your garden. Very nicely done, by the way,” he added, raising his glass.
“That one was Harriett’s doing.”
