“I am never bored,” Sir John continued, with an air of self-congratulation. “Not when my skills and talent are so desperately needed amongst my young acquaintances. I can’t tell you how many happy marriages I am responsible for.”
His wife popped up at his elbow. “Come along, dear. It’s time to retire to the dining room.”
“I’m just telling these pretty young ladies that I mean to stir myself on their behalf and ensure they marry well,” Sir John told her.
Lady Middleton patted his arm. “It really isn’t up to you, dear.” She looked at me and Feodora. “I always advise young women that the most important calculation a woman can make is weighing money against boredom.”
With that extraordinary comment, she sailed away, leading her husband over to the door to head up the procession to the dining room, followed by Marianne and the Colonel.
At the butler’s prompting, Roderick came over to fetch Feodora, who walked away with one lingering glance over her shoulder at Hugh (I really must give her lessons on disguising her feelings).
“May I escort you to dinner?” Hugh asked me.
“No, you may not,” Lord Boucheron said indignantly. “I’ve already been told that Miss Dashwood will sit to my right.”
“Ah, but I have more money,andI’m less boring than you,” Hugh said.
Just in the nick of time, Sir John’s butler loomed up before us. “We have unequal numbers this evening, so I would be grateful if both of you would escort Miss Dashwood to the table.”
Right.
I suppose I should recount the dinner, but honestly, it was just like every other meal at Sir John’s house. He prides himself on offering an orgy of food and drink, all of it served on silver platters. By unfortunate chance, a boar’s head was plunked down on the table just in front me, festively attired with a circlet of rosemary and bay leaves.
“Would you like me to ask a footman to remove it?” Hugh asked, following my gaze.
“No, because I am trying to figure out how to describe it,” I confessed, which led to my telling him about my novel. Even though I had been ferociously hurt by the demise of Squibby and Snaps, his eyes were so interested and intent that I couldn’t stop myself.
“The boar looks like a statue of Bacchus,” Hugh offered.
“That Roman god, the one who loves wine?”
“Precisely. A little tipsy, with a wreath of grape leaves over one eye.”
“I thoughtyouwere playing the role of Bacchus,” I retorted, starting to enjoy myself.
“That was yesterday. Today I’m more like Eros.”
Even I knew that Eros was the Roman god of love, so I was preparing a riposte, when Lady Middleton turned her head to talk to the person on her left, which meant that all of us had to do the same, like the clockwork mechanism on a chiming clock.
I took the opportunity to ask Lord Boucheron—as a published novelist—how he would describe the boar’s head.
He squinted. “Ugly, isn’t it? I don’t care for the boiled look of its eyeballs.”
“That is so observant!” I cried, perhaps a little louder than necessary, because Hugh turned from his conversation with Feodora and threw me a sardonic look.
“I don’t care about eyeballs,” Boucheron said. “Or eat them, either. Why should an exquisite lady like yourself be interested in something as ugly as a boar’s head?”
To my other side, Hugh let out a distinct groan, which implied he was ignoringhisconversation in favor of ours.
“I am writing a novel,” I told Boucheron. Hugh couldn’t expect to be my only confidant, now that he’d thrown away Squibby and Snaps.
Boucheron eyed me. “I didn’t know that.”
“No one does,” I assured him. “I’ve only just begun. Actually, I haven’t quite begun.”
“Don’t,” Boucheron said.
“Why not?” I asked.
