Page 59 of How to Lose a Lord in Ten Days

‘How admirable,’ Lady Morton breathed, leaning so far toward him that her bosoms looked in danger of falling into the chicken fricassee.

‘Fascinating,’ Miss Hesse said, fluttering her long eyelashes.

‘Very,’ Lydia agreed, not to be outdone.

‘Don’t you speak French, Miss Hanworth?’ Ashford said.

Lydia clenched her hand so hard around her spoon that her knuckles turned white.

‘You do?’ the captain said, turning in her direction.

‘No,’ she said.

‘But we have heard you!’ Sir Waldo encouraged.

‘Not really,’ she corrected – for she did not think looking a liar was exactly attractive, either – ‘The tiniest amount.’

Three phrases, to be exact.

‘Oh, you are being too modest,’ Ashford said, and there was an evil glint in his eye. ‘We must all begin somewhere – I am sure the captain would not mind practising with you?’

‘Bien sur!’ von Prett said. ‘Passez-vous une bonne soirée?’

Lydia’s face flamed red.

‘Go on,’ Ashford said. ‘How do you answer him?’

‘The second course already!’ Lydia said loudly. ‘Goodness, Lady Phoebe, this is an elegant spread.’ She gestured to the table, which seemed even fuller than usual. There were beefsteaks in oyster sauce, a baked trout in a caper dressing, a fricassee of chicken, accompanied by broiled mushrooms, French beans and dishes of asparagus so succulent they must have been cut by the kitchen-gardener moments before cooking.

‘Thank you,’ Lady Phoebe said, a little startled – thus far, Lydia had purposefully not offered such praise. ‘Please do not feel you need to eat everything.’

‘But of course we will!’ the captain said. ‘To refuse such fare, when you have gone to such trouble, would be such a discourtesy.’

‘A slice of the carp for you, Miss Hanworth,’ Ashford asked, depositing an enormous portion onto her plate before she could answer.

‘Thank you,’ she said through gritted teeth.

Ashford spooned another great portion. The smell threatened to turn her stomach.

‘Enough,’ she hissed. ‘Or I shall be sick.’

‘That is your issue,’ Ashford hissed back. ‘Not mine.’

‘I shall be sick on you,’ she said.

By the end of dinner, every muscle in her body ached with tension and her mind was fraught with the effort of trying to outthink Ashford at every juncture of conversation. It was untenable.

Everyone rose from the dinner table as one. Tonight they were discarding tea and port to proceed directly to the ballroom. Though there were too few of them for any but the simplest arrangements, everyone was full of cheer at the prospect of some dancing, however informal – everyone except Pip who, with an unconvincing cough, claimed his intention of getting an ‘early night’ while sending Lydia a very speaking look. Tonight, the objective was Mr Brandon’s rooms.

‘May I speak with you?’ Lydia said to Ashford, as they stood.

‘Oh, now you wish to speak?’ he muttered, but he lingered with her, as the rest of the party left, and then looked around to the footmen. ‘May we have the room?’

Once they were finally alone, Ashford leant back against the table, removing his snuffbox from his pocket and tapping it against his other hand. ‘Well? I have only a moment.’

Plainly, he was going to make this as difficult as possible for her, and the urge to hit him across his stupid, smug face became almost overwhelming.

‘Why must you continue to ruin my life?’ she demanded instead. ‘If you were not here, Captain von Prett and I would probably be halfway to love by now.’