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The next was another contrived creation, sole baked in a beautiful pastry shell that looked like it could swim. It had the crowd in ecstasies and Lord Windon and Lady Amelia sat primly and discussed the predilection of the ton. The meal was by no means an unknown, but it the aspic displays were so original, a complete garden of little jelly molds, that they applauded the meal with more gusto than deserving. This reaction was greeted again by covert smiles by the couple at the crowd’s incredulity. The party went on, but each was riveted on the other.
“Pray tell," he asked deadpan with his eyes flashing his amusement, “what matters of the kitchen would be deemed worthy of being greeted with such enthusiasm?"
She held her laughter by staring into the glass of claret as if to heat the content by the ferocity of her gaze. "If you must praise food, I dare say it should be only by composing compliments to the hostess or chef." They both turned as one to regard the crowd and shared conspiratorial smiles.
The rest of the meal continued in the same vein. The two were engrossed in each other, unaware that they had a private audience who looked at the blossoming romance with approval. They murmured between themselves and engaged in light, bantering conversation with a bit of witticism that had them chuckling privately.
The meal finished with light fanfare. After it was done, the ladies stood up to leave the men to their port and spirits. Robert was loath to leave her invigorating presence for an hour of masculine boasting. He had barely been shown into the spacious study of their host when his cousin Lord Felton cornered him and commandeered his entire attention.
“Are you attending the Gingham hunt?” Lord Windon wondered if he had ever greeted the world with such puppy-like enthusiasm.
“You know I have no interest in idle pursuits,” he answered, knowing it would only fire the young lord.
“Even you cannot confess an aversion to hunting,” came the sharp retort. “It is quite shabby, old man, to refuse me company. I shall never earn my place within the circle of notable Corinthians such as yourself."
“I have no intentions of cavorting with their likes, and I have no doubt I am not considered a Corinthian, notable worth or no,” he answered sedately.
“Because you would not share a cup with them no doubt. They have taken to calling you the Black Corinthian, no doubt for your manners and the thunder-like scowl on your brow.”
The Duke of Windon regarded his petulant relative with a look half curious and half amazed. “And no doubt for the manner in which I am attired." Lord Windon was known to favor solemn colors, among which black seemed his favorite.
“S’truth!” His cousin retorted with what was suspiciously like a pout. It looked very unmanly on him.
“By Jove. I cannot imagine, Felton, your fixation with those prancing bucks. What are they to you?”
“They are, I tell you, in the know and have among them only lords of landed worth and high society—which you and I, in all your black guard inclinations, are ourselves. And yet they exclude me! Lord Cheltenham laughed when I suggested a curricle race.”
“Perhaps because everyone knows you wreaked your curricle a month ago.” Felton opened his mouth to retort, and Windon hurried on. “I believe I saw Chuffy earlier. I shall behove myself to introduce you. Will that be satisfactory?”
He then, of course, introduced his cousin. Windon extolled Felton’s manner of handling horses and how he had an excellent eye for horseflesh. He even told the anecdote of the curricle crash, which was caused by appalling road conditions and stray sheep, not driver error. Felton himself had no need for another passport into Chuffy’s good graces as they were well matched in all things involving the handling of horses. Windon left them avidly discussing the advantages of a racing curricle over a phaeton. He circled the gathering to give the host his compliments on a fine evening.
The host, Lord Gainsborough, was pleased Lord Windon had deigned to attend and offered hi
m a glass of very excellent port. The idle conversation rolled on with several men debating the odds on various bets on the books at White’s until the host deemed it time to return to the women in the drawing room.
Chapter Three
Amelia was bored out of her mind. The matter of embroidery she had wished to escape by faux pas had returned with a vengeance. The women had split into little groups to gossip. She had by default joined the largest with the lady of the house holding court. After accepting compliments on acquiring a most excellent cook, the lady, no doubt titillated by her success, led the group in a mind-numbing lecture on how to secure the best servants for the most modest of wages. The strategy of paying a fair wage had worked quite well at the St Clair estates for generations.
Lady Amelia arched a stubborn brow and waited impatiently for her dinner companion to return. She wondered if the men were drinking port and perhaps a bit of smuggled French brandy. No doubt they were discussing important things like the prettiest opera dancer, or the importance of the navy vs. the cavalry. More than a few dashing men in uniform had graced the dinner. She wondered in an absentminded manner how dashing Lord Windon would look in the brass button. Was that how he had gotten his scars? It made his face so much more interesting, like a highwayman or a pirate. She imagined him in a loose billowing shirt, undone nearly to the waist. The most inappropriate thought caused a blush to creep up her cheek.
The men rejoined the company of women with the smug looks that suggested the women ought to be honored to have them return. Despite herself, Amelia bristled, but managed to compose herself in time to catch sight of Lord Windon striding towards her. Another blush stained her cheeks for an entirely different reason.
They resumed their discussion with the ease of friends who had an acquaintance of a lifetime. Lord Rochester had noted the attention paid by Lord Windon on his daughter and had tried to ascertain the manner of man he was. His findings were satisfactory, if a bit vague. Lord Windon kept his own company. The manner in which the younger man excused himself to quickly return to his daughter’s side was something her father approved of absolutely.
“How have you fared with the enthusiastic debates of embroidery?”
“I have restrained from inflicting bodily harm on every party involved, but I must ask you a question. You see, it would put a matter that puzzles me to rest.” Windon was worried about the overly serious expression on her face. It did nothing to detract from her pretty face but it worried him nonetheless.
“I am at your service in all things.”
She turned to him with a prim air.
“I have once consigned the matters men discuss apart from us to be nothing of much import saving which horse would be most likely to win the Royal Ascot. Tell me, was I remiss in such thoughts?” Her eyes twinkled with the most impish delight. Her rapid fanning told him she was quite overcome by laughter and barely capable of restraining herself.
He looked at her with such a woebegone look that she had almost called off her jest. But then she realized he had no doubt caught the joke. He laughed, a deep uproar with his head thrown back. The milling crowds turned curious stares. Lady Amelia herself was most enamored with the strong column of his neck, once hidden by his lapels and the cravat, now half exposed to her hungry stare.
His laughter was a rich flood, a reaction she had not expected. She would have settled with the smiles that sent waves fluttering through her. The laughter tugged strongly. “Have a care, Your Grace.” She whispered urgently even as she turned a bland look to the curious crowd. “People are starting to stare.”
