Daphne's grip tightened on her spoon. She could feel the eyes of the other guests turning toward her, their curiosity piqued by the Duke's pointed question.
"I assure you, Your Grace, I am quite comfortable," she said, her tone clipped but polite.
Ambrose raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. "Of course. I must have been mistaken."
It was at this point that Richard finally became aware of the palpable tension that had settled over the table. He cleared his throat before interjecting, swiftly.
"Perhaps we could discuss something else, Ambrose. I'm sure Lady Daphne doesn't need to be questioned about her dining habits."
Ambrose leaned back in his chair, a look of mock innocence on his face. "I was merely making conversation, little brother. No need to be so defensive."
“Yes, but perhaps conversation can be made about other topics,” Richard replied.
“What could be more relevant than discussing dining habits at the dinner table?” Ambrose chuckled.
It seemed that Ambrose was determined to put her on the spot. His pointed comments that singled her out were a clear indication of that. Daphne could feel her heart pounding in her chest, but she tried her hardest not to let it show on her face.
I shall not give him that satisfaction.She had worked too hard to be thrown off by his arrogance. She wasn't going to let him ruin this evening for her—not when she had come so far.
She turned her attention back to Richard, who was clearly trying to steer the conversation in a different direction. He was kind, as always, and Daphne could see the concern in his eyes.
He was so unlike his older brother that Daphne found it hard to believe that both of them had been raised by the same woman – who was of course, no other than the Dowager Duchess, Edith Harris.
She was present at the table, as well, engaged in a spirited conversation with the young lady seated next to her—a beautiful, demure girl with perfect posture and a quiet smile. Every so often, Edith would glance toward Ambrose, and then Richard.
Daphne found herself wondering what sort of mother in law she would make. Surely, she would be difficult to impress, and Daphne was going to have to put on her best performance.
As the main course was served, Daphne glanced up and caught Ambrose's gaze once more.
Oh, heavens. What is his problem? Does he not have anyone else to stare at?
This time, his expression was unreadable—neither mocking nor amused, but something more complex. It was as if he was studying her, trying to decipher something.
Daphne quickly looked away, focusing on her food. She wasn't sure what Ambrose's game was, but she was determined not tolet him win. Whatever it was, she wouldn't allow him to derail her evening.
Richard, noticing her distraction, placed a gentle hand on her arm. "Are you sure you're alright, Lady Daphne? You seem a little... distracted."
Daphne smiled at him. "I'm fine, truly. You need not worry about a thing, My Lord."
It was another thing that Isadora had taught her, and Daphne felt proud of herself for remembering it. TheoldDaphne would have had a comment to make. But she swiftly remembered that ladiesdo notcomplain. It is a highly undesirable trait, after all, and no man wishes to be with someone who complains too often.
Richard gave her a subtle raise of the eyebrow, "Are you sure?"
"Of course," Daphne assured. "I am certain."
"Hmm," he mused. "You know, you are quite agreeable, My Lady."
At this comment, Ambrose scoffed from across the table but Daphne chose to ignore him, her smile widening instead.
After all,whatdid it matter if Ambrose scoffed in her direction if Richard thought she was agreeable? It was the latter’s approval whom she sought.
Richard was exactly what she needed—steady, reliable, and kind. He did not make pointed comments about her, nor did he argue with her. He would make the perfect husband, she was sure of it.
And yet, despite all this, her attention inadvertently kept wandering over to the duke, a mix of irritation and curiosity stirring within her. She noticed that she was not the only one, either. He seemed to command the attention of the room.
She could see it in the way that the guests leaned forward to listen to him each time that he spoke. Not only that, they made concerted efforts to include him in conversation, waiting for him to react, to nod in approval, or to raise an eyebrow in quiet amusement.
“Isn’t that right, Your Grace?” one of the guests ventured in regard to something he had said, to which Ambrose offered only a polite nod.
