“What are the chances of currant biscuits?” he asked hopefully, his eyes as guileless and eager as a child.
“Low, I’m afraid,” she said sorrowfully. “I fear Heath will try to impress us with multi-layer torts and sugar-crystaled brûlée. Will you be able to make do?”
He lifted his nose. “I will suffer in silence.”
She grinned back at him. “I did not realize you were addicted to currant biscuits.”
“I haven’t had one in ages,” he admitted. “My mother would make them for special occasions, and for a while my sister did the same. These days, she hasn’t time.”
Bryony nodded. She was working on that.
“Why don’t you bake the biscuits yourself?” she teased.
“I have,” he said instantly. “To my immense consternation, it turns out they taste much better when shared with others.”
Her heart flipped.
In that moment, Bryony vowed her greatest achievement would be the day she baked him his favorite biscuits and they shared them together, warm and fresh from the oven.
Perhaps they could make it a tradition of their own.
She leaned toward him. “I was thinking—”
A motion in the corridor caught her eye.
Her stomach sank.
It was not a footman calling them to supper, but the butler arriving with an unexpected guest.
“Lady Grenville,” he announced calmly, as if the cozy romantic evening Bryony had planned was not about to be shattered.
“Mother.” Heath greeted her with equanimity. “What a surprise. I thought you were booked elsewhere tonight.”
“Lady Febland came down with the ague.” Mother cast her sharp gaze about the room, taking each face in turn.
Heath was dapper as ever, of course. His wife Nora sweet and elegant. Nor would one know by looking at Carter that he was more at home on a farm than in a ballroom. To anyone’s eyes, he was dressed to perfection. Mother’s gaze did not linger there.
As always, Camellia and her husband looked every inch the earl and countess that they were. Wainwright’s pockets were bottomless, and his favorite hobby was spoiling his wife.
True, Dahlia and Simon weren’t quite as wealthy. Every spare crown went toward the school whenever possible. But she had been born a Grenville, and never failed to acquit herself prettily. Simon was born out of wedlock, but to a titled father. She granted even him a tight smile.
And then there was Bryony.
Tonight, she had dressed with extra care. Even though Max had claimed he would not be in attendance, her heart had not ceased to hope. She had even submitted to curling tongs in order to ensure she presented herself as attractively as possible. Mother had likely never seen her youngest child try so hard to make herself beautiful. The side-curls alone would win Bryony a spot in her mother’s good graces for at least the rest of the week.
But then, inevitably, dreadfully, Mother’s hawkish gaze alighted on Max.
Bryony’s heart sank.
It was obvious in an instant that his painstakingly shined boots, exquisitely tailored waistcoat, and carefully tied cravat did not signify in the least.
Mother’s eyes were focused with crystal sharpness on the stubble at his jaw, the too-long curl of his hair, the shocking bronze of his skin.
Before Bryony could say a word, Heath jumped in with the introductions. “Mr. Gideon, it is my honor to introduce my mother, Lady Grenville. Mother, this is my esteemed and invited guest, Mr. Maxwell Gideon.”
The gambit would not work.
Mother was no stranger to scandal columns. The name was immediately recognizable. A gambling den like the Cloven Hoof was not something she wished associated with any of her children.
