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He settled in a chair and listened to the conversation among the two elder gentlemen and Lady Seymour. She recited a long list of ailments, and her respondents offered a variety of theories on the salubrious effects of the water and air at the seaside. This was sure to be a long evening.
He dared not let his glance wander to Mrs. Neville. If she happened to meet his gaze, he would have to speak to her, and no subject came to mind beyond the nature of the Weymouth climate.
He tried to assume a pleasant expression, a look of rapt attention to the empty discourse across the room. He had never been any good at social conversation and usually tried to avoid situations in which it was required. Such as this very moment.
“Would you not agree, Hugh?” Lord Carey’s voice startled him.
“You are always the best judge, Father.”
He dared not confess he had not grasped a word in the last few moments. Apparently his answer sufficed, for the talk continued. Soon dinner was announced, and they rose from their chairs. Lord Carey offered his arm to Lady Seymour and followed Sir Malcolm out of the room. That left Hugh no choice but to offer his escort to Mrs. Neville.
He bowed to her, keeping his gaze averted. Yet, from the corner of his eye, he could not miss her half smile as she laid her hand on his arm, still saying nothing. Hugh wished he could hear her voice again. A quarter hour ago, when she had greeted his father, her tone was soft and melodious. Since then, she had not spoken.
Sir Malcolm directed them to seats and immediately launched into an account of his daughter’s resourceful selection of a cook for their summer residence.
“She had the aspirants send a few examples of their receipts, and clearly this Mrs. Kendall had the superior choices. Clever idea, eh?”
Lord Carey nodded.
“Yes, indeed I would say so. What do you say, Hugh? Should we not try the same system?”
Hugh was about to agree when Mrs. Neville spoke.
“Perhaps, Lord Carey, you should wait to make that decision until you have sampled the dishes we serve tonight. There is some distance between the list of ingredients on a sheet of paper and the tenderness of a joint or the delicacy of a butter sauce.”
Hugh forgot his determination to avoid looking at her. She leaned forward, blue eyes twinkling, and eyebrows arched mischievously. Her tone was as light-hearted as her words, and her full lips curved in a luscious grin. His fingertips tingled with the urge to applaud.
His father chuckled.
“How right you are, Mrs. Neville. But from the delicious fragrances already in the air, I would say that your system must have worked to perfection.”
The footman, as if given a theatrical cue to enter the stage, offered a steaming platter of oysters and clams to Lord Carey.
Throughout the two removes, Hugh felt more and more at ease. He said little but kept his attention on the conversation, most of which centred upon the food and its excellence.
Mrs. Neville offered only a few comments from time to time, delivered in her quiet yet musical voice. Hugh observed her, usually quite indirectly. This was one evening when he was grateful for his good peripheral vision, for he could hardly restrain himself from staring at her.
He felt excessively guilty for his fascination with the lady. More than three years had passed since his wife’s death, a time in which he had voluntarily isolated himself from the company of ladies like Mrs. Neville, attractive and lively young women who might tempt him to forget his Beatrice and her suffering. Yet here she was, fortunately married to someone else, but nearby for their entire summer sojourn in Weymouth. Perhaps it was time for him to learn how to conduct himself in social situations again. He had to learn how to talk with ladies without tearing himself apart with guilt.
So comforted, he gave a little smile in her direction. Her eyes met his for an instant before she looked down shyly. Her dark hair was dressed simply, pulled away from her face and tied with ribbons matching the light blue of her gown. Her cheeks were pink, marked by tiny dimples on either side of her exquisite mouth. Something about those lips made him drag his glance away and fidget with his napkin.
Grateful to find a diversion, Hugh helped himself to a ripe pear from the fruit bowl and concentrated on trimming away its stem. He cut off a chunk, put it in his mouth, and chewed slowly, savouring its fresh sweetness, and letting the succulent juice trickle down his throat.
He gave a tiny sigh of pleasure, quickly catching himself and glancing around the table. His father and the Seymours had not noticed. But Mrs. Neville was watching him, that little mischievous smile alive on her face. He felt himself redden in embarrassment.
“They are particularly delicious, are they not?” She spoke softly, only to him. “I could barely resist gobbling up the entire basket this afternoon.”
He swallowed and picked up another slice.
“Where does your cook find them? I should like to know who grows such excellent specimens.”
“Mrs. Kendall tells me she has her secret sources. I suspect she may be more forthcoming after she feels secure in her position. After all we only arrived this morning.”
“Perhaps I should pay her a visit later. She might have a recommendation for the position in our house.”
“Ah,” she said, “you must promise not to try to lure her away. I am already quite taken with her abilities.”
“Perhaps she has a twin sister.”
