She played with her fork as she assessed Mattick through her cat-like eyes. Then she turned back to Edmund with a smile. "But some of us have higher aspirations." She batted her eyelashes at him.
"Indeed," Edmund replied absently.
There, he did it again. That blackguard! Mattick had put his hand over Ellen's and was smiling deeply into her eyes.
Edmund cleared his throat loudly.
They both looked up. Ellen pulled her hand away and looked at her plate.
Mr Mattick smiled cheerfully and raised his wineglass.
Edmund bared his teeth at him.
Cur.
"That husband of yours,he seems the jealous type, I gather," Robert murmured into Ellen's ear.
"Is he? I suppose he is." Ellen stole a glance at her husband, who'd been staring daggers at her throughout the meal.
"If looks could kill, I would be pierced like a sieve," Robert commented.
Edmund had scowled at her, gripping his knife as if he'd like nothing better than to stab someone with it; preferably Robert Mattick.
Ellen concluded he was playing the role of jealous husband well and focused on eating her foie gras. If only Robert would let her eat.
If only he would go away.
A strange iciness had gripped her heart, and her brain had stopped working. He'd been talking ever since she'd been assigned his table partner, but she'd barely registered his words.
When Mr Tilney brought up the name of Jacob Robinson in the general conversation that revolved around literary writers and philosophers, Ellen knew the moment had come.
“Did you know that Jacob Robinson is Lady Tewkbury's stepfather?” Louisa dropped into the conversation. “You must be so proud of him,” she turned to Ellen, whose smile was pained.
Robert's eyebrows rose almost to his hairline when turned to her. "Mr Robinson. Your stepfather. Really?" He didn't move a muscle in his face.
Her cutlery slipped between her sweating fingers. "Yes. Really." Her heart pounded loudly. She put down the fork and knife and lifted her glass instead, only to find her hand trembling.
His eyes were on her, mocking. For a second, she thought about begging him not to say anything. The emotions inside her raged and pride won. She would never ask anything of Robert Mattick again. Ever. Not even about this.
"Interesting," he murmured, and turned to his table partner on the left. Thankfully, he'd dropped the subject. For now.
Ellen breathed an uneasy sigh of relief, wondering what on earth she was going to do when he brought it up again, as he undoubtedly would.
Once upon a time, she would have hung on every single word that fell from his lips.
She'd fallen in love with him the moment her father had brought him home from the club and introduced them. He'd seemed so romantic, with his blonde, tousled curls, his crooked cravat and sloppily slung coat. He'd taken her hand, kissed it, and looked deep into her eyes. Her heart had skipped a beat, and she'd fallen in love with a depth and passion that only a sixteen-year-old girl who knew nothing about love was capable of. She'd worshipped the air he breathed, the ground he walked on. She'd even broken off a branch from a cherry tree in her front garden and cherished it because it had brushed his coat sleeve as he passed.
And then, one sunny spring day, on the day she turned seventeen, he'd called on her while her father was out.
"We get along famously, don't we, Ellen? So what do you think? Shall we elope?" He'd said it as matter-of-factly as if he'd suggested they take tea in the drawing room.
Elope. She'd thought it was a good idea, because her father would never approve of their marriage.
"Wait, my child, wait," he'd said. "Mr Mattick is certainly a fine gentleman," he'd added, "but not in your league. He is not for you."
Words she hadn't heeded ... For with her heart in her eyes, she'd trusted Robert more than her father and had eloped with him to Gretna Green.
She crumbled the bread she was holding between her fingers.
