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“Miss Figstone?”
“That’s the one.”
Narrowing her gaze, she noted the lady more or less rest her sumptuous bosom upon Mr Hawkins’ forearm.
Not that the sight affected Matilda.
In the least.
As long as she ignored the curious ruckus that tipped her belly inwards – probably the lobster patties.
This night, her employer exuded charm and masculinity, a waistcoat of burnished gold highlighting his eyes and bronzed skin. An exotic paisley pattern in a darker shade overlaid the gold and its pockets were outlined in sinful black. A rakish air hung over him as he laughed at some doubtless droll remark of Miss Figstone, his relaxed mien and well-tied cravat holding her eye.
“So why are yer enchanting ladies hiding in this corner?” a Scots drawl enquired, and Matilda twisted to be confronted by a tall rangy fellow with the bluest gaze she had ever encountered. A dab older than her employer, grey hair stippled his temples and fine lines crinkled beside his soulful eyes.
At least she could remember his name as he’d arrived early and without a companion, hence making her table numbers odd, and he wasn’t a fighter at all, but an acquaintance of her employer.
A Mr Kian Finlay.
“We are discussing Miss Figstone,” whispered the lady, “and her intentions towards Seth.”
What? No, they weren’t.
And Miss Pikesworth had stated that such clandestine tittle-tattle was not to be encouraged by the hostess.
The Scotsman perused. “She’s not a chance. He likes his women with a bit more up in the belfry than in breast.”
Matilda’s toes faintly curled at such wordage, and she could only hope her own personal failure as hostess would not affect her employment as governess in any way.
“Although,” continued Mr Finlay, “not a lot wrong with plenty o’ both.”
An odd sense of anxiety rose from her slippers and wobbled her knees. Any hostess worth her salt should guide the conversation to Vienna and yet it was careering away faster than a hare in open grassland.
“I…”
“Giles the Grinder is less fussy,” replied Mrs Dewhurst with a laugh. “But then that milling cove had all the nous dubbed out of him by too many whiffles to the cannister.”
The headache materialised and Matilda held a hand to her wrinkled brow. “I… If you will excuse me,” she stuttered. “I must go to the kitchens and check all is prepared.”
Mr Finlay bowed. “Of course, Miss Griffin.”
After a swift curtsey to them both, Matilda dashed for the door, crossed the hall, put spine to wall, closed her eyes and despaired.
She was hopeless. Knew not what to say. She could read all the books that a library held but none of them would help with this.
When her parents had held dinners, they’d always been quiet scholarly affairs, adhering to every word of Miss Pikesworth. Astwood’s were unsavoury events that she hid in her room from, and her friend Evelyn, before her abducting duke, had lived in an attic, so not had sufficient room for entertaining.
“Wot yer doing there, girlie?”
Matilda kept her eyes closed. “I’m useless, Betty. For all my wordage and reading, I don’t understand their language. They are all so spontaneous, sociable and beautiful and I feel…dim-witted and small.”
Skirts rustled. Gentle hands descended to her shoulders. The scent of fresh bread and kindness. “Yer silly goose. They know each other, ’tis all. They’ve scrapped together since they were nippers and got leg shackled as youths. Bit unfair of Mr H to ask yer, I think, wot with yer being an unmarried miss and not one of them, but men never understand stuff like that.”
“But I’ve been to dinners with unknowns before.”
“Not as hostess, where yer supposed to have the upper hand. Now, tell Betts wot the problem is.”
Matilda breathed deep. “I don’t know what milling coves are. Or whiffles. Or muzzlers. The guests are all so attractive, exuberant and uninhibited – chatting about bosoms and suchlike.”
