Page 12 of To Steal a Duchess

Dorian didn’t know what to say to that, so he guided her inside the dining room. The sooner they got the wedding breakfast over with, the better. He could only hope that her adjustment at Oldcliff Hall would prove less awkward than this.

After they were seated, drinks were poured, and the first dish was served. As promised, Dorian had taken care of everything, including the menu, even though the bride would often create that with her mother.

It was part of her duties as his duchess, after all. If anything, it gave him a chance to figure out what his duchess would want available when she dined with him, judging on what she thought of the dishes.

On Eloise’s other side, Lord and Lady Wittby watched their daughter, but Dorian saw how Lord Wittby kept catching his eye. He only raised his glass, pretending to think the earl was meaning to congratulate him. Lady Wittby was close to Eloise, already talking about the events she could host, now that she was a duchess.

Eloise’s fingers gripped her spoon hard enough for her knuckles to go white. She ate almost mechanically, as though she was not present. She nodded at her mother, but Dorian could tell she was not listening properly.

Overwhelmed.

That was how she looked, and Dorian did not know her well enough to know how to comfort her. He turned back to his own food, and hoped he had provided enough wine to get them both through the rest of the day. He was restless through the first course until the appetizer was served.

“Oysters?” Eloise said, a hint of surprise and, Dorian thought, excitement, in her voice. It was the most emotive he had heard her be all day, save for her amused retort at the carriage door.

“Yes,” Dorian answered. “Do you like them?”

“They are most pleasant,” she told him, and he saw a sparkle of delight in her eyes.

That accentuation was back in her voice, in the company of her mother, and Dorian found himself wishing he could speak to Eloise, not the earl and countess’s daughter. He tamped that thought down. He had no right to want to have the authentic version of her when he did not even know her properly.

“I am glad.” Dorian nodded, watching as Eloise carefully forked out the meat inside and appropriately discarded the shell on the side plate provided. Dorian did the same, though he knew, if he was alone, he’d have sucked the meat right out without use of cutlery.

For a moment, he stared down at the generous helping of oysters, and he could hear crashing water in his mind, echoing in his ears, and the scent of brine rising from the sea, sinking into every surface of a small, cramped living space.

This is how you do it properly, boy.

Dorian took a deep swig of wine as he heard the rugged voice and saw a bearded face, skin lined from age and tanned from days spent on the beach or the railing of an old lighthouse.

Do not let yourself fall into such thoughts, he chided himself.

Still, for a moment, he was a boy again. He could feel the slick, fresh oyster shell between his fingers. How he had often dropped it at first, until he had grown more adept.

“Well, I must say, you look a thousand miles away, Oldcliff.”

Dorian finally shook off his thoughts, eyes snapping to Eloise—knowing it could not have been her to speak to him—but her eyes were lifted to Gideon.

And—oh.

Dorian realized he had neglected to formally introduce the two, and it was no wonder Gideon had taken matters into his own hands.

“We were admiring the oysters,” Eloise said when Dorian failed to answer in time. “They are most delicious.”

“Indeed.” Gideon nodded at her. “I finished mine rather quickly, so I thought I would take the opportunity to come and meet His Grace’s bride properly.”

“Of course,” Dorian said, finally gathering himself. “How forgetful of me.” His control of the day, of himself, kept slipping, and he did not care for it. Not one bit. “Duchess, this is Gideon Keswick, the Marquess of Lamberton. Lamberton, this is Eloise, the new Duchess of Oldcliff, but also the daughter of the Wittbys.”

He nodded to the earl and countess, who were deep in conversation with another couple. Lady Wittby’s poised shoulders said enough that she was boasting.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Your Grace. I do hope your husband here will not make this our only meeting.” Gideon bowed, and Dorian noticed how Lady Eloise did not seem to know what to do with the first use of her new title.

“The pleasure is mine, Lord Lamberton,” she answered calmly, showing no sign of the overwhelm from earlier. “And I am certain we shall meet again.”

“I do hope so.” Gideon’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “However, I shall leave you both to the remainder of your food, but I shall come and find you once the food is finished.”

“Do not trouble yourself,” Dorian told him drily. He knew his friend well enough to know that he would press for a story of how Dorian had met Eloise. He would ask endless questions and, no doubt, would compliment Eloise far more than Dorian could bring himself to.

Which, heavens, he had not even complimented her in her wedding gown, too lost in his own confusion about how she had already tangled his mind over two meetings.