Louise glanced up to find him watching her again. Their eyes met across the table, and something electric passed between them. Her breath caught. His fingers tightened on his wine glass.
“My nephew is what we call laconic.” Cecilia’s voice carried amusement. “It means he uses very few words.”
“Oh. Is that an illness?” Emily asked with genuine concern.
Louise nearly choked on her wine. The duke’s lips twitched, the closest thing to a smile she’d seen from him.
“No, darling.” Louise managed once she could speak. “It means someone who speaks concisely. Efficiently.”
“Like you tell me not to run on with my stories?”
“Something like that.”
“Sometimes,” Cecilia added with a meaningful look at her nephew, “it might be considered more of an affliction than a virtue. Particularly when one’s dinner companions are forced to carry the entire conversation.”
The duke set down his glass. “Would you prefer me to regale you with tales of my day? I reviewed correspondence. Examined ledgers. Met with my estate manager about drainage issues in the lower fields.”
“Thrilling.” Cecilia’s tone dripped with theatrical disappointment.
“You asked.”
“I asked for conversation, not a recitation of agricultural concerns.”
Louise watched the interplay between aunt and nephew, noting the affection beneath their sparring. The duke’s shoulders had relaxed slightly, his posture less rigid than when he’d first entered the dining room. She wondered if he knew how his face softened when he looked at his aunt.
The footmen cleared the soup course and brought the fish. Emily attacked her sole with enthusiasm that suggested she hadn’t seen proper meals in months, which wasn’t far from the truth. Louise’s appetite fled at the reminder of how far they’d fallen.
“You’re not eating.” The duke’s low voice carried only to her.
Louise looked up to find him watching her with what might have been concern. “I’m not hungry.”
“You’ve barely touched anything since you arrived.”
The observation startled her. Had he been paying attention?
“I eat enough.”
“Enough.” He repeated the word as if tasting it. “Like everything else you do. Just enough to survive, never enough to relish.”
The insight cut too close. Louise straightened her spine. “I’m not accustomed to such rich food.”
“Then become accustomed.” The words emerged as nearly a command. “You’re no use to your sister if you waste away.”
Anger flared, hot and sudden. “I’ve kept Emily fed and safe for years without your concern.”
“And look where that has led you.”
Across the table, Lady Merrow’s brows lifted ever so slightly. Then, with a hostess’s practiced instinct, she turned to Emily, her tone full of warmth.
“Emily dear, you must tell me your favorite story. Do you prefer tales with fairies, or brave little girls, or dogs as clever as Buttercup?”
Emily perked up as though someone had lit a lantern inside her. “Oh! The one about the girl who outsmarts the troll! And the one where the dog talks?—”
Buttercup wagged furiously, thumping against the table leg. Cecilia laughed and leaned in, encouraging Emily to go on. Emily’s cheerful chatter with Cecilia faded to background noise.
Louise’s hands clenched in her lap, hidden beneath the table.
“You’re right.” She kept her voice level through sheer force of will. “My failures have led us to depend on your charity. I’m reminded of it with every bite.”
