“Our kitchen received the instructions sent from yours,” she said in a discreet undertone, which was nonetheless easily heard by everybody at their end of the table. “I hope such fare will ease your complaint.”
Jonathan was speechless. Their interest now piqued, his neighbors all craned for a look at his plate, afterwards displaying their various aptitudes for concealing disgust. “Must be bilious,” he heard Lady Caroline whisper to Captain Talbot.
If Jonathan wasn’t bilious before, he certainly was now. His gut churned with revulsion. But what could he do?
As a gentleman and a guest, contradicting his hostess in public would be unforgivably rude. The only man present who might attempt it was Noah, but ensconced as he was at the bottom of the table and in animated discussion with his neighbors, he was, unfortunately, oblivious to his friend’s plight.
Jonathan’s state of mind was fast progressing from desperate to feral.
Days of anxiety and suspense had already depleted his reserves, before ravenous hunger began to gnaw away the remainder. Adding to that, the cruel taunts of the luncheon, the alleged chamber-sweets, and the glorious feast in front of him (with its irresistible fragrance of stewed lamb assaulting his nose), juxtaposed beside the offense of gloopy egg and gray sludge—not to mention the mortifications of his vanished trousers and “bilious” stomach, nor the gall of Claire speaking a bare-faced lie with all the magnanimity of St. Brigid gifting jewels to the poor?—
Well, after enduring all that, could any man be faulted for losing his temper?
And Jonathan nearly did. He was a breath away from upending his plate, seizing the tureen of lamb, and digging into it with both hands.
But his good decorum held—only just. Seething to his very core, every minute costing him a year’s patience, he yet managed to keep his seat. He even choked down a few spoonfuls of gruel (the egg was not to be attempted).
Whatever penance Claire was determined to foist on him—and it was abundantly clear that this dinner was penance, as were the orange luncheon, the sawdust biscuits, and perhaps even the pilfered trousers—he was equally determined to endure.
He would prove to her that he had changed. That he would never again let anything—or anyone—come between them. That no matter what schemes she concocted to make him leave, he would stay right here by her side.
Accordingly, after the first course was cleared and the second arrived, he served the indecisive Mrs. Nathaniel Chase with endless patience, ignoring his own throbs of hunger. And when Mr. Evans appeared at Jonathan’s elbow with another plate—this time containing colorless cabbage mush and dry, stringy mutton boiled to within an inch of its life—he thanked the butler profusely.
“Please convey my compliments to the kitchen,” he added to Mr. Evans, though pointedly looking at Claire. “All the food has been exactly to my standard and agrees with me exceedingly.”
Claire looked surprised, and Jonathan felt gratified to have finally got some sort of reaction out of her.
Especially when, seemingly despite herself, the corners of her lips turned up.
Six
THAT NIGHT, Claire couldn’t sleep. A sudden storm broke over the castle, rattling its windows and howling through its battlements. Yet she wasn’t kept awake by fearful noises, or even anxious prayers for the weather to clear by morning.
No, though a tempest raged all around her, what disturbed her rest was the far more piddling matter of a stomach ache.
Even worse, the stomach ache was her own fault. Having been too diverted to eat much at dinner, then too flustered to eat anything at teatime, she had thought to fortify herself with a cup of coffee, though she usually took only tea or chocolate. Now she felt shaky, empty, and sick.
Of course, one could lay part of the blame at Lord Milstead’s feet, for it was he who’d rendered her too flustered for teacakes. Just before tea was announced, he’d mentioned in passing the fact of his father having proposed to his mother at a Christmas party, with just such a meaningful look as Claire could hardly fail to understand. Then he’d spent the rest of the evening attempting to ease her toward the mistletoe dangling from the drawing room chandelier.
And even though his pending proposal was no great surprise—even though he’d been invited here for just this purpose, and even though she’d already made up her mind to accept him—she couldn’t help feeling just a touch of panic.
Which was perfectly natural.
Right?
A proposal was a momentous event. Momentous enough to make any woman feel nervous. It would be strange had she not felt so!
Although, come to think of it, she could not recall any nerves when Jonathan proposed. She remembered feeling excited and wildly in love. And so happy that her heart might actually burst out of her chest, or inflate like a hot air balloon and carry her to the clouds.
But not nervous.
Which was neither here nor there. In fact, likely this was further evidence that Jonathan was the wrong man for her. She must have known, deep down, that the marriage would never take place. Hence, there had been no reason for nerves.
Though such lines of reasoning relieved her feelings, they did nothing for her sour stomach. After an indeterminate time spent curled up in a tragic ball, she threw back the covers and braved the wrath of Kippers.
“Forgive me,” she said, smoothing his offended fur. “I simply must have something to eat. I daresay you can relate.”
He mewed in agreement.
