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It was the dowager duchess who broke the silence. “You still appear to be having that trouble, Farleigh. But I had rather go into dinner than sit here and discuss your regrettable foray into fashion.”
That snapped everyone to attention, and as the dowager duchess stood, so, too, did the rest. In due course, the line formed by the ladies’ ranks as the men escorted them into dinner. Isleen was far enough back from Simon, who led his mother, that she couldn’t hear whatever it was the duchess had leaned in to whisper to him.
Isleen wound up sitting directly next to Simon, who was in the middle of the table from the duchess’s right. On Isleen’s other side was Mr. Hepsworth, who didn’t seem at all inclined to give attention to anything other than his well-laden plate.
Simon turned to her with a pleasant smile but had the nerve to hold his quizzing glass up to his eye. “Miss Frost. I hope you find the meal to your liking.”
“I do,” she said softly, resisting the urge to sink beneath the table. “And yourself?”
That was when she saw the glint in his eye. A knowing, dangerous sort of light that gleamed more than twinkled and promised retribution. “Yes. Though I had not expected just how much I would enjoy it.”
They were not talking about the meal.
Lord Atella sat directly across from Isleen, and perhaps he had overheard their conversation. “I am glad to hear it,” he said. “This is a similar menu to the one I prepared last year. Do you remember, amore mio?”
Lady Atella laughed, the sound light and polite. “I will never forget, though I am thankful we did not make the pasta this time.”
“I have never heard this story,” Miss Hepsworth, sitting on the other side of Simon, said happily. “Will you tell it, Lady Atella?”
“After dinner,” the contessa promised. The conversation broke into pieces again, and Isleen dared to look at Simon from the corner of her eye.
Oh dear.
His clothing really was absolutely terrible.
Isleen had to hastily raise a napkin to her lips to smother a hysterical inclination to giggle.
CHAPTER8
Though most considered the weather too cold in December for outdoor painting, Isleen had decided to brave the temperatures despite the chill in the air. The sun was out. The sky was blue. There wasn’t much of a breeze. Surely, she could manage an hour or so in the gardens with an easel and watercolors.
After, she would join the party of people going to Lambsthorpe to explore the village. The party included everyone in the castle under the age of thirty and over the age of twelve.
Which meant Simon would be there.
Though the rest of the previous evening had passed without incident, apart from the jests Sir Andrew made at Simon’s expense, Isleen intended to stay out of Simon’s way as much as possible.
Darrie had looked at Isleen as thoughshehad been the one wearing the purple waistcoat when Isleen spoke of her plans to venture out of doors. In the end, the kindhearted maid had insisted not only on wrapping Isleen up in several layers of wool, but on coming outside with her mistress.
“A fine thing it would be if you’d no one to warn you when your nose turns blue.” She had put her brown wool coat on and followed Isleen out into the winter sun.
They were on the south side of the castle, where the light was best. Isleen turned her easel so she faced the castle itself—ramparts, towers, and all. It didn’t take long for her to get its form, as she focused less on details and more on general shapes. It would be pretty-ish when she finished, though hardly a worthy copy of the grand building.
She’d seen several paintings of the castle hanging up inside and knew well where her own skill would rank. But she enjoyed the time spent in art, even if she wasn’t the best water-colorist in Ireland. Or, she supposed, in Great Britain.
After a time, she became aware of Darrie speaking in a quiet voice to someone else. A male someone. She listened, though her focus remained on the brush in her hand. She wore fingerless gloves, but hardly needed them. With the sun shining on her back, it wasn’t nearly so cold as she’d feared it would be.
“Yer mistress is a fine painter, miss.”
“Thank you. But you should see how well she does when the sun shines warmer than this.”
“Ah, you’re one of the Irish what’s been invited for the month. I’ve never spoken to an Irish girl b’fore.”
“You have not? We talk the same as anyone else, to be sure.”
“Exceptin’ you’ve a way with your words. Sounds like you’re near-singing ‘em.”
“That’s a bit of flattery if I have ever heard it. You ought to take yourself off to your work, if that’s all you’ve come for.”
