Like Katy, Arabella suddenly wished she could go with him. How would it be, to dance with him to real music?
“Miss Weston?”
Startled, Arabella looked up.
Katy had to repeat the question twice. “I was asking whether you thought Papa did fine?”
“He’s an excellent dancer after all.”
“The waltz is more logical. There’s mathematics behind it,” he grumbled.
“Aye, and now that we’ve got that figured out, the next step is clothes.”
“That is something I will leave to you,” Arabella said hastily. She’d already seen him nearly naked once.
Twice.
She swallowed.
“Aye boy, we’ll make an earl out of you yet.” Fergus, giving Philip a clap on the back, was satisfied.
Chapter 23
Everything had gone wrong.
He’d led the wrong lady in at the wrong time, sat at the wrong place and eaten with the wrong forks. He’d mixed up the fish fork with the pudding fork. His table lady, Lady Bleckingham, who had more feathers on her headgear than she had hair, had looked at him with amusement and enquired whether “my lord” intended to skip the oysters.
He’d replied he had no idea what “my lord” intended to eat next.
The lady had uttered a peal of laughter. Then he realised she’d meant him.
Blushing, he’d put the fork down, only to have a footman step in and replace it.
That liveried fellow hovered behind him, following his every move. He took a sip of his wine, the fellow refilled it. Philip wanted to help himself to a plate of meats, the fellow jumped in to hand it to him. He was probably counting the number of times he lifted his spoon or fork to his mouth, as well. It was highly irritating.
Miss Weston had said he was to comment on each dish. He racked his brains. “Perfectly symmetrically proportioned filet,” he uttered in–between bites. Blast it, what interesting thing was there to say about a grey slab of meat?
He turned the fork in his hand. “Best thing I ever ate,” he lied.
It worked. His table partner brightened and started describing the food she’d eaten at Lady Whitebury’s supper the other night.
He breathed a sigh of relief. The problem was now and then there’d be this odd look on her face, and he knew immediately he’d blundered, but not how or why.
“My lord?”
After the third time she’d said, “my lord”, it occurred to him she might mean him.
The entire table stared at him.
His fish fork, with a piece of meat on it, hovered mid-air.
His host, the earl, repeated, probably for the third time, with an amused look on his face: “I said, Threthewick may have an opinion on this.”
Zounds. He’d been talking to him! He’d never get used to this blasted title.
“Opinion on what?” That came out more testily than he intended, but did they all have to look at him like he was a pimple on Jove’s chin?
“On theSavannah’ssuccessful transoceanic voyage from America. The world’s first steam-powered ship. It docked in Liverpool after only twenty-seven days.”
