“I was unaware that imbibing alcohol had been added as a requirement of gentility?” Alex kept his voice even, but sardonic humor hummed through his words.
Given how thoroughly the duke’s expression froze, His Grace wasnotamused.
Dinner had been a wee bit of a disaster.
The Duke of Ferndown sat at the top of the table, as his rank dictated. Though well into his fifth decade, the duke was still a large, athletic man, bringing to mind an aging monarch—autocratic and fussy but ready to ride to hounds at any moment. Granted, this sense was helped along by His Grace greeting Alex and then launching into a twenty-minute lecture on grouse-versus-pheasant hunting.
His Grace did nothing by halves. His opinions, his side whiskers, and the boom of his voice were all duke-sized. Everything about him saying,I am supremely confident of my place in the world.
As well he should be, Alex supposed. The man was a duke, after all. Such men were the center of their own universe.
His Grace’s son, Lord Frank, sat beside his father, an uncanny copy of his sire. Seeing the two men together was like watching Time in action. Though on Lord Frank, the duke’s bombastic personality became more supercilious than supremely confident. Lord Frank, after all, was a second son, not the duke’s heir, and gave every appearance of feeling that lack keenly.
Lady Frank sat opposite her husband, on the right-hand of the duke. Pretty and delicate like her sister, she was much as Alex remembered. But a haunted melancholy clung to her, a lingering pain that he did not recollect being there before. The family had seen death in recent years. Alex’s presence alone testified to this. Both Ferndown and Lord Frank sported mourning armbands on their evening coats, as if to loudly proclaim their continued grief over the family’s losses.
At the other end of the table, the Dowager Lady Lockheade was a force to be reckoned with. French wit laced her English, and she had a shrewd gaze which Alex suspected missed nothing despite her advanced years.
As for Lady Charlotte, she sat opposite Alex. She smiled and said little, but her inquisitive eyes hinted that her thoughts were legion. Mostly, she parried the conversational thrusts of the man at her elbow, Lord Nettlesby.
Nettlesby, introduced as a close friend of Lord Frank, had instantly set Alex’s teeth on edge. The gentleman clearly had designs on Lady Charlotte. He monopolized her attention and laughed like a braying donkey at every third thing she said.
To her credit, Lady Charlotte’s reaction to his lordship could best be described as ‘long-suffering tolerance.’
Clearly no one, including himself, wished to be here tonight.
But the assembled company was attempting to behave civilly toward Alex. After all, no one wanted to so thoroughly offend him that he chose to fight the attainder strictly on principle.
Had Alex been in a more agreeable frame of mind, it might have even been amusing to watch so many entitled aristocrats attempt to walk that fine line.
Or, rather, stagger up the path like a passel of school chums three sheets to the wind.
Case in point—
“The ability to discern a fine drink is the hallmark of any refined gentleman,” Lord Frank said, eyes narrowing.
“Hear, hear.” Nettlesby raised his wine glass in approval and shot a daft grin at Lady Charlotte, as if looking for her approval.
“Well said,” Ferndown boomed. “A full day of hunting needs to be finished with a stiff drink. There’s nothing more bracing for the constitution.”
“Exactly, Father,” Lord Frank agreed, turning to look at Alex. “But as Scots regularly imbibe whisky, perhaps the sense of nuance is lost on your race, Dr. Whitaker. Bit of a hammer to the senses, scotch.” His tone implied thatScotsmenthemselves were included in that sentiment.
Alex kept his polite smile firmly in place.
As he had noted, the duke, Lord Frank, and Nettlesby had been walking the line between civility and boorishness like roaringfousots.
For example, Lord Frank remarked that Alex’s evening attire was ‘surprisingly elegant for a Scotsman.’ Nettlesby agreed and laughed that Alex was more ‘literate’ than he supposed a Scot to be.
Edinburgh University led the world in medical studies, and Alex had graduated as a full MD with highest distinction. How did Nettlesby think that had come about? That Alex had merely slept on his medical textbooks for a few years and magically woken one day knowing all the information inside?
Of course, when Alex had politely pointed this out, Nettlesby and Lord Frank had changed tactics. They moved on to discuss hunting and riding to hounds, now assuming that Alex was a milksop and a polymath, and therefore incompetent when it came to sporting activities.
Honestly.
Alex was intelligent enough to understand what was going on here. The gentlemen were flaunting a hauteur that glittered as sharply as the polish on the silver.
All in an effort to proclaim,You will always be an outsider.
Part of Alex seethed that their blatant efforts at manipulation were so bloody effective. His competitive spirit wanted to rise to the bait and blast them all with a similarly cutting politeness.
