“You have the look of a man who has been found out, Dr. Whitaker,” the lady laughed, a delighted tinkle of sound. “Is dessert also forbidden you?”
Alex set down his fork, a rueful grin on his lips. “Aye. I dinnae eat sweets, either.”
Lord Frank shook his head with a groan. “Do you have any vices, Dr. Whitaker? Or are you determined to strip every last ounce of enjoyment from life?”
Lord Frank, Alex supposed, was perhaps a wee bit too attached to his moniker. His words were as frank as his name.
“Surprising as it may be, one can live a full and contented life without alcohol and sugar.” Alex only barely managed to keep the sarcasm from his voice.
Silence greeted him.
“Ah,” Lady Frank said, swirling her wine glass, “but now I raise the most critical question—will Lottie abandon her pudding?” She raised her eyebrows toward her sister, a wry smile on her lips.
Lady Charlotte laughed. “In that, I must disappoint. My sense of fairness and solidarity does not extend to giving up flummery and fairy cakes.”
Lady Charlotte fair sparkled at the words. Charming. Dazzling.
Alex detested how his heart flipped in his chest.
He was not this man.
A bonny English lass would not turn him into a love-sick welp.
No, she would not.
Thankfully, Ferndown cleared his throat again, even more loudly this time. His Grace took back the reins of the conversation, and the remainder of dinner devolved into an argument between Lord Frank and Nettlesby on the possibility of pheasant hunting even in January.
“Well, that wasa rather excruciating evening,” Margaret said. “Dr. Whitaker is not quite as genial as I remember.”
Her sister looped her arm through Lottie’s as they left the drawing room, intent on the central stairs.
Lottie pinched her lips shut.
Margaret was not wrong.
Dinner had been . . . frustrating.
But her sister was also mistaken.
Given the situation, Dr. Whitaker’s behavior had been remarkably patient and restrained. After all, every word and glance had been calibrated to snub and wound the doctor. Their poor cousin who had donenothingwrong, except be born and outlive every other heir.
Dr. Whitaker had endured the lot with the sort ofsang-froidshe imagined men took to the guillotine, alternating between glacial silence and gallows humor.
Despite the family’s opinions, Lottie was not convinced that Dr. Whitaker intended to contest the proposed Writ of Attainder. He looked upon each room—and each of them, to be honest—with a sort of muted horror. As if he were almost crawling out of his skin, racing to see the backside of this venture. He was a dragon eager to return to his own lair, not one intent on pillage and conquest.
Or perhaps she was merely projecting her own wishful thinking.
“I do not wish to offer censure, Lottie, as we are all under a great deal of strain,” her sister continued. “But you were rather too forward in your manners with the doctor tonight.”
“Pardon?” Lottie stopped at the base of the staircase, her sister’s words causing her brow to furrow rather dramatically. “I do not understand your meaning, Margaret.”
“You are far too intelligent to misunderstand me.”
Lottie waited.
Margaret finally rolled her hand.
“I will return the favor, Dr. Whitaker,” Margaret repeated, her voice lightly sing-song. “My solidarity does not extend to fairy cakes.Dearest, you were all but flirting with the man.”
