Mr. Stanwick served her a slice of roasted duck and spoke of his garden. “My lilies require a quite delicate balance of moisture and...”
Victoria ignored his dull conversation. Disconcertingly, neither of the gentlemen seated beside her seemed to care what she thought on any of the subjects they had discussed. They seemed satisfied with the vague replies and general questions she directed their way. While she wasn’t looking for true love in a marriage, a small degree of interest and respect on the part of her future husband wouldn’t be uncalled for. Perhaps she would have to ask Jane to find her some other candidates, though she did not want to seem ungrateful.
As she swallowed a spoonful of apple compote, Victoria let her gaze travel down the long table until it rested on Taviston once again. He now spoke to Lady Smitherton, so Victoria turned and began a new topic with Lord Wareham. After a minute or so, heat climbed up her cheeks. She looked up yet again and received a brooding, dour look from Taviston.
Even though he had started this game, he certainly did not know how to play it. His expressions were decidedly unoriginal and repetitive. Victoria briefly thought about awarding herself a point just for creativeness. Ascertaining that Taviston’s attention was still on her, she rolled her eyes as far heavenward as she possibly could and was immediately rewarded with the sound of his fork crashing to his plate. Her eyes danced as she tallied up her third point.
Her enjoyment of the dinner party increased tenfold. How could it not when she was thoroughly discomposing the always composed and staid Duke of Taviston. A brief flicker of remorse crossed her conscience, but she dismissed it with a reminder that he had been acting oddly to begin with. As she had surmised once before, she would never understand the man’s behavior. She couldn’t imagine living with him day after day. The frustration of it all would more than likely kill any good woman.
Finally, the footmen laid the table with various dried fruits, nuts and a lavish Neapolitan cake. Victoria knew soon enough Jane would rise and lead the ladies out of the room. She had very little time to attempt to score a fourth and final point in this foolish game of pulling faces.
Taviston eyed her once again. Most of the fierceness had drained away; now he simply stared at her with that endearing, bewildered look she so loved, er, liked.
Victoria held his gaze for at least half a minute, then let a slow, secret smile shape her lips and winked at him. A loud strangled sound emanated from the duke. The entire party stopped conversing, and all stared at him. Victoria had no doubt he was literally choking on some very piquant words. A genuine smile burst upon her lips. Victory was hers!
Lady Smitherton patted Taviston on the back as he continued to cough, and Jane drew the company’s attention away from her discomfited guest by rising and bidding the gentlemen farewell. She led the ladies back to the drawing room for tea while the gentlemen stayed with Northfield to partake of his port.
Once in the drawing room Lady Smitherton drew Victoria into conversation, concerned about “dear” Taviston. She insisted the poor man wasn’t feeling quite right this evening. Victoria nodded in agreement and swallowed a giggle.
Jane made her way around the
room, speaking briefly to each of her guests. This done, she stole Victoria away from Lady Smitherton and directed her into a corner of the room where they had some measure of privacy.
“Well, what do you think?” Jane asked her impatiently.
Victoria wanted to say, I think the Duke of Taviston is quite mad. Should we be concerned? However, she doubted Jane spoke of Taviston.
“About?”
Jane huffed. “Lord Wareham and Mr. Stanwick, you ninny!”
“You couldn’t possibly think I would be interested in Mr. Stanwick, Jane! He’s chuckle-headed, among other things.” Victoria didn’t try to hide her frustration.
Her friend smiled with delight. “He is indeed. I only wanted to make certain you wouldn’t just up and marry any man who came along.”
“Please say you give me more credit than that.”
“Oh, don’t worry, I most certainly do. I thought as well that perhaps Mr. Stanwick would make a nice contrast to Lord Wareham. Was I right?”
Lord Wareham was a perfectly fine fellow. He was handsome, pleasant, charming, titled and many other wonderful adjectives. Victoria tried to muster some enthusiasm.
She smiled gamely and said, “He’s a nice man. I did tell you a title wasn’t necessary though.”
Jane’s eyes widened. “Are you discounting him because he has a title?”
“Of course I am not discounting him,” Victoria said defensively. With reluctance she admitted, “He does have a pleasing face.”
“Oh, I would say he’s more than pleasing. So would any number of young ladies who are out this Season.”
They can have him. She had to find a tactful way to tell Jane she wasn’t interested in Lord Wareham. And then she needed to figure out why, exactly, she wasn’t the least bit taken with an elegant, engaging, titled man.
Jane giggled. “Lady Daventry and I are smitten with his soulful eyes. We call them ‘puppy brown.’”
Preoccupied with forgetting about Lord Wareham, Victoria’s attention had wandered. “What? Puppy brown?”
“Yes,” Jane answered. “Wouldn’t you agree he has the most remarkable brown eyes?”
“Well, I suppose so, if you like brown eyes.” This conversation was going nowhere. How to tell Jane she didn’t think Wareham would do?