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Logan narrowed his gaze on the women, letting it linger for a few seconds before turning back to the table. Donella held out his teacup with a long-suffering expression. Joseph looked like he wanted to crawl under the table and hide.
“Thank you.” He took the cup. “And Donella has the right of it, lad. Just ignore them and enjoy your tea.”
Joseph stared down at his cup. “Those ladies don’t seem to like us very much.”
“Och, just a pair of old biddies. Best not look at them or you’ll turn into stone.”
Joseph blinked, obviously confused by Logan’s observation.
Donella patted his hand. “Your father is just being silly, dearest. It’s probably best that you ignore him, too.”
“Excellent advice, because you never know what shocking things I’m going to say next,” Logan said, winking at his son.
“Or do.” A subtle warning laced her tone.
Don’t make a scene.
Making a scene happened to be a Kendrick specialty.
Fortunately, their waiter arrived with a tray laden with pastries and cakes. They’d gone rather overboard on the ordering, but Logan was determined to spoil his son.
Donella smiled at Joseph. “My goodness. You’ll have to roll me out of here if I eat more than my share of these.”
Logan had a sudden vision of Donella rolling around in his bed. Naked, of course, because that’s the way his brain worked.
He closed his eyes, trying to control his idiotic imaginings. He was on a public outing, with his son, no less, and yet he was visualizing how he would bed the primmest woman he’d ever met. There was only one explanation—he was losing his mind.
“Papa, is something wrong?”
Logan opened his eyes. “I’m trying to decide where to start. What do you think? The éclairs?”
When Joseph enthusiastically nodded, Logan transferred an éclair, two macaroons, and a piece of plum cake onto the boy’s plate. Joseph picked up the gooey éclair and crammed half of it into his mouth.
“Careful, laddie,” Logan said, trying not to laugh. “You’ll choke yourself.”
Blissfully unaware of the chocolate smeared on his lips, the boy nodded, his mouth too full to speak.
Donella dabbed at his face with a serviette. Joseph suffered it before taking another huge bite.
For a minute or so, Logan was too busy enjoying his son’s pleasure to notice the buzz of rising voices in the room. But then he mentally slammed into a wall when one particular word seared his brain. Donella’s gasp told him that she’d heard it, too.
As had Joseph, since the boy’s fork clattered to the plate. He wiped a hand over his mouth, then stared fiercely down at the table, trying not to cry.
Fury rose inside Logan like a raging summer storm. He came to his feet and turned to face what he hated most in the world—someone who robbed his sweet boy of innocence.
“What did you call my son?” he asked Mrs. Ferguson.
He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to, as her frightened expression revealed. But quickly self-righteous hatred replaced her fear, contorting her features into an ugly mask.
“You heard me, sir,” she said. “No decent person would bring such a child into a civilized establishment.”
Every other patron in the room froze. Their waiter rushed in from the other room, but one glance from Logan stopped him dead in his tracks.
“Mrs. Ferguson, I asked you a question,” Logan said. “I insist on an answer.”
The woman’s companion laid a warning hand on her arm. “Dorothea, perhaps you shouldn’t. He seems like a thoroughly rude and unpleasant man.”
The old harpy shook off the restraining hand and glared at Logan. “I will not be driven off by you and your . . .”
