Before Clare could reply, Nick continued, “What he’s really saying, dearest, is that he cannot be bothered.”
“Why not?” Hortense found herself asking. All eyes swung around and landed directly on her, a feeling she’d never particularly enjoyed. But she wasn’t finished. “Take workhouses, for example, they could use reform.”
Clare winced. Her words had hit their mark.
“Indeed, they could.” Leave it to Mariana to take up the banner. “It’s the children that break my heart.”
“What children?” asked Geoffrey around the spoonful of tart lemon ice in his mouth. Dessert had arrived.
“Orphans, my love,” said Mariana. “They are taken in, and to earn their food and bed, they are made to work. Their small hands and sharp eyes are useful to the unscrupulous.”
“That’s horrid,” Lavinia said with such a vehemence that one could catch a glimpse of the woman she would someday become. One very much like her mother, love of needlepoint notwithstanding.
Hortense, meanwhile, held Clare’s gaze, steady. “Some are born there, and it’s the only life they know. They will do anything to escape it for a taste of freedom.”
She was speaking to the room at large, but only to him in truth. When they went to Flick Doyle tomorrow night, it was vital Clare understand this about his son and the life—one of sticky fingers and petty crime—that he’d chosen over the workhouse.
A servant’s hand reached in to remove her untouched dessert dish. Dinner was over.
“Shall we continue our conversation in the drawing room?” asked Nick. “I believe Sir Bacon would appreciate a lap to curl within.”
At his name, the canine gave a determined little bark that had Geoffrey and Lavinia chasing after him. Mariana rose, and the gentlemen followed her lead. Even in this informal setting, certain manners were adhered to. Hortense followed the group toward the doorway, all too aware of Clare on the opposite side of the table doing the same. The room could be pitch black, and her nerve endings would be able to locate him. Unsettling thought.
She was about to exit the room when an arm appeared at her side. A forearm.Hisforearm, to be exact.
“May I provide you escort?”
Her gaze flew up to meet his. “I’m certain that won’t be necessary. ’Tis no more than a few feet away.” Oh, that telling rasp in her voice.
“When have humans ever been content with what was merely necessary?” he asked, the rumble of his voice possessed of the same telling rasp. “We’re too full of wants and desires to reach satisfaction so easily.”
She wasn’t certain she’d ever been struck speechless in her life before she’d met this man. And now it was happening daily.
Of its own accord, and entirely unnecessarily, her hand slid up and settled itself upon his forearm. She inhaled, and her body went flush with heat. There it was, the scent of him. This man…he conjured feelings in her. Sometime in the last few days they’d snuck in, though she couldn’t locate the precise moment. But here they were, swirling inside her. Feelings, wants, desires, and, oh, most definitely necessity.
But this need was no mere or simple thing, she was beginning to suspect.
How had she let it happen?
Through layers oflinen and superfine wool, her light touch was enough to set Jamie’s skin alive. The vibrancy within Hortense was that potent.
As they navigated the short distance from dining room to drawing room settee, it was all he could concentrate upon. He darted a glance down, but her gaze remained fixedly ahead. Once they’d maneuvered around Geoffrey, Lavinia, and Sir Bacon engaged in a rowdy game of fetch, she offered a murmured thank you and took her seat near Mariana. He moved to stand at the fireplace and rested his arm on the mantelpiece. He found Nick’s gaze steady upon him. Little brother had been watching. Hortense was family here, that was clear.
Only a few hours ago, he’d arrived at Asquith Court to find Nick in his study, waiting. He’d been gutted from the afternoon’s discoveries, and in no mood for Nick, who looked to be harboring a grudge. Well, Nick wasn’t the only one with a grudge. Considering it was Nick who had inserted a spy into his household—even if that spy now occupied his thoughts night and day—he felt his grudge superseded his brother’s. “Miss Marchand?” he’d asked, gruff, annoyed.
“I hired her,” Nick said, cool, unapologetic. “I didn’t know what had come of you.” A beat passed. “And I needed to know.”
That instant, Jamie released the grudge for two reasons. His brother cared. And there was the not insignificant fact that he would have never met Hortense otherwise.
“Will you come to dinner tonight?” Nick asked without preamble.
Jamie’s first instinct was to refuse. Then he considered if Nick could put forth the effort, then he could, too. “Will there be other guests?” If so, he wouldn’t go. Socializingen famillewas one thing, with thetonquite another.
A smile twitched about Nick’s mouth. “We have but one guest every Monday evening. I believe you are acquainted with her.”
A feeling of portent stirred in Jamie’s gut.
“Rather recently, in fact.”
