“Why do they all look so angry?” I asked Damon.
“Eight. Nine. Ten . . .” Ollie’s voice carried into the gallery.
Damon laughed and continued searching for a place to hide. “They aren’t angry. They’re powerful. And one day I’ll be powerful too, just like my father and his father and his father’s father and all the previous earls of Winfield. One day a painting of me will hang in this room.”
“When they paint you, you should try not to look so stern.”
“Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen . . .”
“I’ll try to remember to smile for you.” Damon smiled at me then, and his eyes shone as brightly as the sea on a sunny day. “Now stop talking and hide.”
“You’re uncommonly quiet, Miss Kent.” The sound of Damon’s husky voice pulled me back into the present. “Is something wrong?”
I shook my head, chasing away my wayward thoughts. “You’re only a little unkempt.”
His eyes followed my gaze up to his hairline, and with a small smile, he pushed back the wet strands.
“Matthew,” Betsy called. “To the table for dinner.”
Matthew didn’t move; he remained staring up at Damon. I couldn’t blame him. Damon was a captivating storyteller.
“Scurry to the table for dinner now,” Damon said, “or your ma will be cross with me.” Damon nodded toward the table, and this time, Matthew quickly obeyed.
“Lord Jennings, Miss Kent, you both must sit and eat too,” Betsy said.
“That is kind of you to offer,” Damon said. “But we—”
I clutched Damon’s forearm to stop him from rejecting her invitation. While it was commendable that he didn’t want to take food from their plates, I knew from my time serving the poor in London that it would be a far worse crime to refuse. “We would behonoredto break bread with your family, Betsy,” I said.
Damon looked at me in question but quickly fell into line. “May I escort you to dinner, Miss Kent?” He offered me his arm.
A silly gesture indeed, considering the table was not five feet away from where we stood, but also endearing.
Damon helped me with my chair, then sat across the table from me.
Betsy served us each a bowl of steaming stew, and Mrs. Turner watched us anxiously from her perch by the fire.
Damon ate a spoonful. “I daresay Prince George’s chef could not create a meal half so delicious.”
Mrs. Turner wagged her finger at Damon. “Flattery is a tool of the devil,” she said, but her eyes shone brightly with pride.
Betsy continued serving the rest of the family as we ate. Or, rather,triedto eat. My hands shook so badly from the cold that lifting my spoon to feed myself proved difficult.
“You are cold,” Damon said with concern. He shifted as if to remove his own coat, but then stopped—it was also wet and would do little good.
“I’m fine,” I whispered, and I tried to prove as much by eating another bite of stew, but by the time the spoon reached my mouth, most of the broth had fallen back into the bowl.
Damon beckoned for Betsy, and she hurried over. “Miss Kent is in need of dry clothing. Do you have a dress to spare?”
“That really isn’t—” I started to refuse, but my sentence was cut off by an admonitory look from Damon.
“Yes, m’lord. And you must also borrow a shirt and trousers from my husband.”
“Very good.” Damon nodded.
“Truly, this is not necessary,” I protested. “I will only become soaked again when we leave.”
“We won’t be leaving here until the rain stops,” Damon said. “We rode here in an open-air curricle, and I will not risk your health for the second time in one day.”
