“Should I congratulate you on being a newlywed?” An eyebrow quirked upward.
She hesitated, seeking the right response. “I would suppose that might not be completely inappropriate.”
“Hmm.” The Earl continued to eat.
Harriet stood, seeking a distraction, something to get the old man’s thoughts away from her. “I see you have brought some volumes with you, my Lord. May I look?” She gestured at a small bookshelf where several books lay within reach of a large chair.
“By all means,” the Earl answered. “I shall indulge in one bit of this pie, and then it’s on to the dreadfully sinful marzipan sweets. My weakness, you know.”
Harriet smiled as she walked to the shelf. “Ah, Shakespeare.” She ran a finger over the large tome.
“Can’t travel without the man,” murmured the Earl.
“Voltaire, as well, I see…”
“Indeed.”
She glanced up. “Both men might well be described as historians, as well as philosophers and wits…?”
His gaze narrowed and he pointed a fork at her. “Aha. I knew it. You are a woman of letters, Mrs. Harry. Your intellect belies your age.”
“I enjoy a good read, sir. I hardly think that qualifies me as a woman of letters.”
“You’re quite wrong there, my dear.” He dabbed at his lips with his napkin and took another sip of ale. “Firstly, you read. That puts you miles ahead of most of your contemporaries in town. Secondly you have opinions about what you read. That sends you further up the lists. And lastly, you recognize not only Voltaire’s name, but enough of his writings to draw an excellent comparison with Mr. Shakespeare, no matter how different they may seem on the surface.” He leaned back with a smug smile. “Thus—a woman of letters. I rest my case.”
She shook her head and smiled, about to respond when a light tap at the door interrupted them. She walked over and opened it a little, widening it as she saw Paul with a small tray of brandy and a lovely crystal glass.
“For his Lordship,” said Paul.
“Come in, lad,” called the Earl. “Your timing is almost perfect.”
Harriet moved backward, shooting a sharp look at Paul, and hoping he would pick up her implied warning. He nodded, a casual gesture that told her nothing.
“For your after-dinner pleasure, my Lord,” he said, putting the tray down. “I believe you’ll find this a particularly fine vintage.”
“I’m sure I shall, Mr. Paul. Thank you.” The Earl glanced at the bottle approvingly. “Your wife here was about to tell me the story of your marriage. I understand it is of recent date?” He looked at the two of them. “Congratulations, by the way. You are well suited, it would seem.”
Harriet fought the blush she could feel creeping up her cheeks. “You are too kind, my Lord.”
“You are very gracious, my Lord.”
“Oh stop my-lording me, if you please, it gets quite tiring,” sighed the Earl. “So why are newlyweds working in such an out of the way hunting box in the middle of winter?”
Harriet opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Paul seemed similarly afflicted.
The Earl’s lips twitched. “Let me hazard a guess that you did not expect a party of guests and decided that a winter honeymoon in a quiet little corner of the English countryside would be just the thing…”
“How astute of you, my…er…sir,” said Harriet.
“You have found us out, sir. Well done.” Paul bowed.
“And yet…there might be something more…” The Earl gazed at the two of them speculatively.
“I…”
Another tap on the door interrupted Paul, and with a sigh of relief he hurried to open it.
“Is his Lordship ready to retire yet, Mr. Paul?” It was the valet.
