“You have a very unusual way of eating, my lord.” At least Huntly possessed impeccable manners, which was somewhat of a relief. She’d half expected him to slurp his wine and eat with his fingers.
“How so?” He pierced her with an irritated stare.
“Well, you”—she nodded toward his plate—“seem to avail yourself of only one item on your plate at a time.”
The silverware he held over his plate paused at her observation. “A habit I picked up as a child. I didn’t think I merited so much of your attention, Miss Stitch, that you would care how I enjoyed my food.”
“Perish the thought,” she retorted.
“And here I was looking forward to your silence during the meal.” The big fingers gracefully moved the knife and fork.
“As you wish.” She refocused her attention to the lukewarm potatoes. She would amuse herself by making a list in her mind of all Huntly’s unpleasant traits. Arrogant. Rude. Condescending.
“I was a stubborn child,” he said abruptly, interrupting her thoughts. “A trial to my parents and nursemaid. A constant source of irritation.”
“Having known you only a day, I can agree with that assessment.”
Genuine amusement stretched his wide mouth. “You are very prickly, Miss Stitch. I imagine it works wonders under usual circumstances. But you are mistaken in thinking it puts me off.”
Emmagene’s pulse fluttered unexpectedly from both his words and what was a dazzling smile. Huntly was devastatingly attractive when he chose to be. She immediately pulled her gaze from his to the mound of peas on her plate.
“My nursemaid didn’t care for me,” he continued in a casual tone. “Which I’m sure you don’t find the least unusual either, Miss Stitch. I had difficulty with my letters. Refused to learn to read. I was considered stubborn and not as intellectually gifted as my brother, Douglas. The solution, since I was always hungry, was that I only be permitted to eat what I could spell.”
Emmagene watched his features carefully, noting the way the brackets around his mouth sunk deeper as if he was tasting something bitter. His tone would suggest they were only discussing the weather or perhaps something equally mundane.
“Not knowing my letters meant memorizing how to spell specific words incredibly difficult. One word, or sometimes two, was all I could manage at a time.”
“Were you served only what you could spell? So—”
“No, my plate was always full of an assortment of things. A way to motivate me, I suppose, or an attempt to broaden my vocabulary. I had to spell out the food, clearly, before being permitted to place it in my mouth. I learned ‘tea’ first, but it isn’t as sustaining as one would imagine. There were days I couldn’t spell anything on my plate.” He gave her a wry smile.
A rush of empathy filled her for the young lad Huntly had once been. “How old were you?” Emmagene took a sip of her wine. Far too sweet and cloying, much like their hostess.
“Six.”
She set her glass down, trying not to show her surprise. An older, possibly more stubborn boymighthave deserved such drastic measures, but starving a small child was outright cruel. “Your nursemaid should have been dismissed. Didn’t you tell your parents?”
Huntly’s attention returned to his plate, the man stiffly picking at the pheasant with his fork. “No. It was my mother who suggested taking such a tactic. My brother had set the bar very high, you see. Douglas was quite brilliant.” He shot her a wry smile. “And he helped me once he realized what was happening.”
“How old was your brother at the time?” she said, quietly appalled. It seemed Honora wasn’t the only one with a horrid mother.
“Douglas was eleven.”
“He was yourelderbrother? I assumed sinceyouare the Earl of Huntly—”
“Dead,” he interrupted. “Douglas is dead. I became the heir, much to my parents’ enormous disappointment, though neither lived long enough to witness the demise of the earldom they’d predicted would happen were I to become the earl. My ability to finally spell everything on my plate didn’t advance their opinion of me. Nor did anything else I accomplished.”
Emmagene was familiar with parental disappointment, though her parents would never have done anything quite so cruel. It was obvious the incident had affected much more than the way Huntly attacked his dinner plate.
“Do you have any other questions?” he said in a cool tone.
“I don’t believe I do,” came Emmagene’s curt reply. He didn’t want her pity. Nor was she inclined to give it. Poor parents abounded among the wealthy; Huntly wasn’t alone in being treated so harshly.
“Surprising. You look the sort who likes to pry.”
Emmagene turned back to her plate.
They ate in silence for the next few minutes before Huntly set down his fork with a clatter. He narrowed his eyes at the servants swarming the other tables, jumping about pouring wine and refreshing plates, all while ignoring her and Huntly. With a soft growl, he picked up several peas off her plate with his large fingers and lobbed them at the closest footman, hitting the poor man in the cheek. “I require your service. Now.”
