Before I can refuse on my own, Imogen pipes up, her tone astonished. “Don’t be silly, Mr. Aston. You shall escort my mother. I told you already that Miss Bellefleur works here. She isn’t a dinner guest.”
Although her tone has me bristling, she’s right. Even though house steward is normally considered an esteemed position in a grand house, the dinner guests don’t see me that way. To them, I’m a lowly servant who should not be invited to join such an event as a guest. With the rift between me and Elliot, I’m almost certain he’ll take the opportunity to exclude me. If he does, I’ll accept it and trust he can handle his own for the remainder of the night.
“On the contrary,” he says, tone firm, “my steward will be joining us for dinner.”
Equal parts surprise and relief wash over me. “Thank you, Mr. Rochester. It’s an honor.”
Imogen purses her lips. “Do you treat all your staff so kindly?”
Elliot’s jaw shifts back and forth. “Gemma is—”
Imogen’s eyes widen. “Gemma? Are you also on a first name basis with your staff?”
I feign a casual laugh. “I’m always trying to remind Mr. Rochester that humans aren’t as casual with first names as the fae are. It’s a strange custom to him, and he’s still getting used to it.”
“Well, in that case, please call me Imogen.” She looks up at him, her expression making it clear that she awaits the invitation for her to use his first name in turn. But it doesn’t come.
“Shall we proceed?” Elliot asks.
Again, Gavin offers me his arm. Not wanting to draw further attention to myself, I accept.
Elliot leads the way with the rest of us following in pairs, aside from Ember, who walks alone. Why is she always so coldly excluded? Then again, if it weren’t for my presence bringing our party to an odd number, she’d have an available escort.
We enter the dining hall, a spacious, elegant room with marble floors, tall windows revealing the night sky, and a long table at the center.
Imogen tuts as she approaches the table. “No place cards? Miss Bellefleur, if you needed further help, you should have invited me to arrive earlier. But never mind that. As honorary hostess, I shall make it up on the spot. You, Mr. Rochester, should sit at the head of the table. We may be guests at your party, but I can’t help considering you the guest of honor tonight.”
He meets her fluttering lashes with a tight-lipped smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Very well.”
Imogen orders the rest of us around the table with her and her mother sitting on either side of Elliot, followed by the Davidsons, then Mr. and Mrs. Aston, Clara and Ember, and me and Gavin at the very end. Clara mutters about being stuck on the boring end, tossing a sneer across the table at her stepsister, while Gavin seems to relish the honor of pulling out my chair and settling in across from me.
“Have I told you how delightful you look this evening?” he asks.
“No, but thank you,” I say coolly, then turn my attention to the head of the table. Imogen says something quietly to Elliot, leaning toward him as if she wishes to crawl into his lap. His expression remains neutral, his tone even when he replies. It seems he’s chosen to play the stoic gentleman tonight, and he isn’t doing half bad. I’m truly impressed.
As the servants step forward and begin ladling food on plates, Mrs. Aston says, “I must say, Mr. Rochester, I had no idea such a lovely manor existed way out here in the woods. However, I’ve heard the most unsettling stories about wolves in the area. Have you seen any?”
Elliot’s eyes meet mine for a moment, the ghost of a grin tugging the corners of his lips before he composes a blank face. “Yes, Mrs. Aston. I have seen wolves.”
I suppress my smile. It’s a good answer for one who can’t lie.
Mrs. Aston gasps. “Have any attacked? Or…or are they,” she lowers her voice, “your kind?”
He opens his mouth, but a look of alarm sparks in his eyes as they flash again toward me.
Saints, I doubt he can find a way to truthfully evade that question.
“The wolves around here are nothing to worry about,” I say. “They rarely show up and have yet to hurt anyone.”
Imogen burns me with a glare. “How would you know, Miss Bellefleur? It’s not like you’re an expert on Vernon. You only arrived mere days before my family did.”
Mrs. Aston nods gravely. “That’s true, Miss Bellefleur. None of us really know what they’re capable of.”
Mr. Davidson faces Elliot. “Have you considered hiring trappers to take care of the wolf problem? It’s a shame your property should be overrun by them.”
Elliot’s façade falters, his irritation evident in the pulsing at the corners of his jaw. “No, I have not and will not consider such a thing, nor do I recall stating the wolves were aproblemto begin with.”
Mr. Davidson blanches at the venom in Elliot’s tone, exchanging a glance with his wife before turning his attention to his plate.
