“It is easier if I place the pot on the table,” Miss Darling said. Her gaze flicked in his direction but did not remain there for long. Soon she would give a rushed recital of the night’s menu followed by an apology for the lack of variety.
Lockhart found the iron stand and placed it on the crude round table near the far wall. “And what delights await us tonight?” he said in the rich drawl that always left the lady flustered.
“Pheasant casserole with parsnips and carrots.” She placed the heavy pot on the stand, breathed a relieved sigh and flexed her fingers. Miss Darling insisted on bringing supper each evening though she had numerous servants capable of seeing to the task. “I know it is the third time this week that you’ve—”
“Pheasant is a particular favourite of mine,” Lockhart interrupted. He lifted the lid and inhaled the woody aroma of game and thyme. “And I am grateful for a hot meal.”
A blush touched her cheeks, and she shrank back towards the door. Somehow, she found the courage to look at him directly. “There is no need to be polite.”
The depth of her sapphire-blue gaze held him in thrall though he maintained an indifferent expression. Miss Darling could not act the part of his wife. Not because her innocence made her unsuitable, but because he was in danger of devouring her naive little mouth, of ravishing every inch of purity from her sumptuous body.
Such was the way of wicked men.
“And I have brought a baked apple tart.” Miss Emily Darling approached the table whilst clinging on to Dariell’s arm. Every evening, she accompanied her sister on the short walk from the manor house named Falaura Glen.
Dariell placed the dessert on the table. “And it smells delicious.”
Miss Emily smiled as if the compliment were the pinnacle of her life’s achievements. “You are most kind, monsieur.” She turned and looked at Dariell, though having lost her sight as a child, gazed somewhere beyond his shoulder.
Silence ensued.
“Would you care to dine with us, Miss Darling?” Every evening, Lockhart invited them to stay for supper, but they invariably declined. Tonight, he felt compelled to be more persuasive than usual. “My friend is weary of my less than enthralling conversation.”
Miss Darling gave a nervous smile as she scanned the breadth of his chest. “We thank you for the offer, sir, but we ate two hours ago and should get back to the house.”
Two hours ago? Lockhart could never get used to dining at six.
“It is cold out. Won’t you at least warm yourselves by the fire before venturing home?”
A shiver shook the lady’s shoulders, and she drew her drab shawl across her chest. “A brisk walk is a perfect remedy for cold bones.”
If the woman could not remain in a room with him for five minutes, how on earth was she to share his bed? No. Miss Darling was a most unsuitable candidate, indeed.
“Still, I would not want you to catch a chill on my account.”
Miss Darling raised her chin. “I have a hardy constitution.”
“Then humour me,” Lockhart countered, desperate to prove Dariell wrong, desperate to prove this lady lacked the wherewithal to tackle the vipers in the pit called the ton. Yes, wiping the smug grin off his friend’s face was the reason for his persistence.
“May we stay?” Miss Emily asked. “Just this once. It won’t hurt to have a small bite to eat, and I am keen to hear Monsieur Dariell’s opinion on Plato’s ancient theories of the soul.”
Dariell’s eyes brightened. “And I would be delighted to hear your views on the subject.”
Lockhart suppressed a smirk. He turned to Miss Darling and arched a brow. “Well? Will you disappoint two people who clearly have a shared interest in philosophy?”
A faint huff of annoyance left the lady’s lips. “What loving sister would deny her sibling a moment of pleasure?”
What loving wife would deny her husband the same?
Lockhart gestured to the table. “Then allow me to escort you to your seat.”
He offered his arm though judging by the flash of horror in Miss Darling’s eyes she did not relish the prospect of touching him. Being a man used to taking charge, he captured her dainty hand, ignored how soft and warm it felt, and placed it in the crook of his arm.
“It has been some time since I escorted a woman to dinner.” More than five years to be precise. “Permit me this one indulgence.”
She cast him a sidelong glance but continued to hold his arm. “You strike me as a man who’s used the same line many times, Mr Lockhart.”
“On the contrary, Miss Darling, I never grovel for a lady’s attention. But I should like to play escort to you all the same.”