Page 32 of How to Lose a Lord in Ten Days

For what sort of gentleman described their betrothed in such a way? Despite his words in Uncle Edmund’s study, he plainly cared not a jot for her. When she had thought him led by sentiment, she could find some sympathy within herself for his bullheadedness, but now she perceived there was no such excuse. Her poor first impression of him had been correct – nay, entirely too fair. He was, in fact, nothing less than the most reprehensibly arrogant man she had ever encountered, and she must rid herself of all attachment to him with the utmost expediency.

Rounding her shoulders to a slovenly posture, and laying an elbow upon the table, Lydia reached for the jug rather than wait for a refill to be offered to her – tipsiness would be, she felt, helpful on all counts – except—

‘Ah, may I offer you some lemonade?’ Ashford said, sliding the jug away from her before she could reach it.

She looked up at him, narrowly. Had he done that on purpose? It was difficult to tell. His expression was almost entirely unreadable.

‘Yes, please.’

She waited for him to fill up her glass, and then reached for the soup tureen. There would be no waiting for the gentlemen to serve her this evening.

‘Ah, would you perhaps like some artichoke soup, as well?’ Ashford said, hastily seizing the ladle in hand before she could even touch it.

‘Ugh, no, thank you,’ Lydia said a little irritably. This was not going to work if he kept getting there first. ‘I hate artichokes.’

‘You do?’

‘They make me feel uncomfortable. Physically.’

Ashford cast her a sideways glance.

‘I see,’ was all he said. ‘Would you like—’

‘Uncomfortable,’ she said, with a vague explanatory gesture to her stomach. ‘In my … self.’

Ashford made a noncommittal noise that did not invite her to continue.

‘Sometimes, even it causes me to—’

‘You have my sympathies,’ Ashford interrupted.

Lydia shrugged. ‘C’est la vie,’ she said, with all the vim and flourish she could muster, and watched as Ashford’s hand clenched around his spoon.

Perfect.

As the serving concluded, the table turned as one, in a movement so ingrained it resembled a dance, the gentlemen to their right, the ladies to their left. Everyone except Lydia.

‘Miss Hesse,’ she called across the table. Miss Hesse paused, midway through turning to Lord Dacre. ‘Miss Hesse, did I see you at Captain von Prett’s lecture last month?’

A shiver of discomfort went round the table, as when a cat is rubbed the wrong way. Miss Hesse opened her mouth, shut it, glanced to her mother, and then uncertainly back to Lydia. When one dined informally, it was allowable to converse with persons on the opposite side of the table. This was not informal dining, however, despite Lady Phoebe’s assurances otherwise.

‘I – yes,’ she said, at last. ‘Mama and I attended together.’

Miss Hesse tried to turn again to Dacre.

‘What did you think?’ Lydia persisted. and she could almost see the mental calculations passing across Miss Hesse’s mind: to ignore a direct question, rude, to speak across the table in such a way, ruder.

‘It – he – I …’ Miss Hesse stammered, so uneasy that Lydia had to steel herself against a pang of guilt.

‘Oh, isn’t he wonderful?’ Lady Phoebe sprang to assist. ‘Sir Waldo and I met him at Burlington House, and his descriptions of the Americas were just fascinating, weren’t they, Waldo?’

She sent the volley to the opposite end of the table.

‘Eh?’ Sir Waldo, slower upon the uptake, fumbled the return.

‘It was his lecture you found enlightening, was it?’ Ashford sprang to assist. ‘Not his face?’

‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,’ Lady Phoebe said coyly.