Edmund’s heart jumped to his throat. The mere thought of marrying Violet Woolsey made him choke. When the idea had first come up in the telegram, he hadn’t seriously considered wedding the woman, but neither had he had such a visceral reaction as this. Miss Woolsey was a fine enough woman as women went, yet not one with whom he wished to share his life. But he couldn’t very well tell that to the viscount, or his run for Parliament would be over before it began. He needed Bastion’stitle to get elected, and the viscount needed Price money for his land-rich, cash-poor coffers.
“Yes, about that...” Grabbing his water, he sipped it slowly, stalling for time, then set the glass carefully on the table. “Perhaps, my lord, it would be better to delay any thought of marriage until after the election. Wait to see how things develop.” And in the meantime, hopefully Violet’s head would be turned by a different man.
Bastion chuckled. “In this instance, your patience is a detriment. I’m afraid my Violet has her heart set upon a Christmas wedding. The sooner the engagement is announced, the sooner preparations can be made. It’s not every day my only daughter weds, and I intend to make it a spectacular event.”
Edmund sucked in a breath. He wouldn’t allow himself to be forced into an engagement he didn’t want, yet he couldn’t risk offending the viscount either—and if he spoke what was on his mind, he’d never make it to the House of Commons.
He ran his hand along the arm of the chair. Now was as good a time as any to practice diplomacy. “Naturally I understand you love your daughter a great deal. But I would not wish my campaign to overshadow such an event. I think it is in Violet’s best interest if we do not pursue the matter.”
“Cold feet, eh?” Bastion arched a brow. “To be expected, I suppose. You’ve been a bachelor a long time.”
Guilt punched him square in the gut. It felt wrong to lead the man on like this, pretending he’d consider Violet at some nebulous date in the future when in reality he wanted nothing more than to be left alone. Diplomacy be hanged! If he lost his chance for the viscount’s sponsorship, then so be it. He still had the Egyptian cargo to sell, which would be enough to get Sanjay and his family by for a while until he could figure out a different way to stop that tariff.
He rose to refill his glass. Better to say what he must without making eye contact and enflame the man all the more. “Lord Bastion, I think you should know I cannot agree to mar—”
“Dinner is ready.” Barnaby ducked his head through the doorway.
“Look at that! We’re worse than two nattering hens.” Slapping his thighs, the viscount stood. “Shall we?”
Edmund sighed. His butler’s timing couldn’t have been worse. Even so, he forced a pleasant tone to his voice. “Yes, let’s.”
As they strode to the dining room, his mind raced as to how to handle the situation. He couldn’t keep avoiding the marriage issue forever. He’d have to say something ... but did he really need to say it before the election? Or at least before Bastion’s proposed dinner party? That event would be the perfect opportunity to rub shoulders with potential supporters and advance his campaign, enough that he wouldn’t need Bastion’s backing. If he could just bide his time until the Woolseys left tomorrow, perhaps he’d find a way to navigate through this mess. But for now, he had the gut-churning feeling this was going to be a long evening.
A very long one indeed.
It was to be a duel, then. That much was clear. The crustacean crouching on Ami’s plate taunted her as ruthlessly as Violet’s veiled comments had throughout the first and second courses.
“What a quaint gown, Miss Dalton.”
“I don’t believe I’ve ever seen such a unique hairstyle.”
“My maid has a wonderful cream to hide blemishes. I’ll have her drop some off at your room, and you can try it on your nose.”
Condescension with a smile was the worst—and Violet was a master of the game. Ami dabbed her nose with her serviette, supremely self-aware of her freckles, her hair, her gown. And if that wasn’t bad enough, now she must navigate how to eat a lobster while avoiding the horrid, sliced lemon guarding the thing.
While Violet was busy chatting with her father, Ami retrieved a silver pick at the side of her plate and poked at the shellfish.Which got her absolutely nowhere. If only this were an ancient vase fragment with a bit of dried mud, she’d know exactly what to do.
Across the table, Mr. Price caught her eye, and her cheeks instantly heated. He’d noticed her ineptness. She could take Violet’s barbs, but if he were to mock her—especially in front of the Woolseys—that would sting.
Yet there wasn’t a hint of mockery in his regard. No pity. No scorn. Instead, there was something more, something ... Her breath caught. The same spark lit his eyes that illuminated her father’s when he wished to teach her about a new procedure in cleaning relics.
Mr. Price’s gaze shifted pointedly to her hands, then back to her face. One brow lifted as, with an exaggerated movement, he picked up his lobster and twisted off a claw.
She mimicked.
He smiled—then twisted off the other claw and set the thing back down.
She did the same, her pulse quickening as he guided her through each step. Without a single word, he showed her how to extract the fine, white meat. Almost like a dance. His dusky blue eyes encouraging her every move, guiding her deftly, making her feel cared for in a way that went deep and took root.
And when his lips parted to take a slow bite, his gaze fixed on hers, she nearly swooned. What would it feel like to have that mouth pressed against hers?
Great heavens!
She set down her fork, stunned by the forbidden thought and even more so by a sudden realization. She was falling for this man. Hard. Fast. All because of a silly, wonderful lobster. Which of course was absurd. The most eligible bachelor in all of Oxford couldn’t seriously be interested in her.
Could he?
“Don’t you agree, Miss Dalton?”
