“I have no time for such things,” Ambrose barked, tiring of Morgan’s jest. “She is here to manage my wily young lads, nothing more.”
“You’ve got it worse than a green lad at his first ball from the way I am getting a rise out of you. I think the old rake has met his match with the governess…quite racy for someone who is usually so calculated in his acquisitions …”
Ambrose slammed the decanter down, the glass ringing. “If you’re finished with the romantic fiction, we have the matter of the Cornwall shipping lanes to discuss. Or did you come here solely to irritate me?”
“You make it so easy, Your Grace.” Morgan held up his hands in mock surrender. “Business, it is then. But don’t think I didn’t notice you nearly growled when I kissed her hand.”
An hour later, Imogen stood in front of the mirror in her small chamber, smoothing the skirts of her best gown, which was not saying much. It was a simple, high-necked dress of dark forest-green wool, devoid of lace or embroidery. To a lady of theton, it would look like a burial shroud. Yet, to Imogen, it felt like armor. She had coiled her hair into a sophisticated crown of braids, a style she used to craft for Julia, though it felt strange to wear it herself.
When she entered the dining room, the boys’ eyes went wide.
“Miss Lewis! You look like a princess!” Arthur shouted, jumping in his seat. “Or like Maid Marion!”
“You look very pretty,” Philip added quietly, a small smile touching his lips.
“Thank you, my darlings,” Imogen murmured. Her heart warmed at their thoughtful compliment.
The Duke of Kirkhammer stepped forward, his eyes sweeping over her with bold admiration. “A princess? No, Arthur, your vocabulary fails you. Miss Lewis, you look like a painting that has stepped out of its frame to shame every other woman in London. That green is the exact shade of a hidden glade.”
“A rhyme, Your Grace,” Imogen said as she felt the heat rise to her cheeks, a genuine blush staining her skin. “You are far too eloquent for your own good, I fear. Thank you for your kindness, hyperbolic as it may be.”
The Duke of Welton stood at the head of the table, his gaze burning a hole through her chest.
“Miss Lewis,” he said, his voice low. “Thank you for joining us.”
They sat then, the silver gleaming under the chandelier, the fine crystal refracting the light into tiny dancing prisms across the stark white tablecloth.
Arthur and Philip exchanged a vibrating look of pure mischief as the soup was served, their polished shoes kicking rhythmically against the velvet chair legs.
“Tell them about the Great Purple Eruption, Miss Lewis!” Arthur burst out as he finished slurping his vichyssoise, nearly knocking over his water goblet in excitement.
Imogen laughed, a warm sound that softened the formal edges of the dining room. She caught the eye of His Grace, offering a mock-apologetic shrug.
“I’m afraid the kitchens still bear the scars of our academic pursuits,” she giggled as she dabbed her napkin to her lips. “What did you think of it, Lord Philip?”
“Uncle Morgan, it wasn’t just an eruption,” he clarified, leaning forward until his nose was inches from the gold-rimmed plate of venison and potatoes that was set before them for the next course. “It was a chemical reaction!”
“We were studying catalysts,” Imogen explained, her hands animating the story. “A bit of red wine and saleratus, you see.”
“We mixed it together, and it foamed wildly,” Arthur said, his eyes wide. “It looked like magic!”
“Before I knew it, we were standing there, and the foam had spilled everywhere!” Imogen laughed, all eyes on her.
The boys dissolved into giggles, the stifling formality of the dinner party broken by the image of their dignified kitchen draped in purple suds.
“The best part,” Arthur added, wiping a tear of laughter away, “was when the chef walked in!”
“This is the best night ever,” Philip said softly, stabbing the last pea on his plate. “We’ve never had dinner in here with Uncle Ambrose before.”
Imogen paused, her fork halfway to her mouth. She looked at the Duke of Welton, then back to the boys. “You mean, the first time in this house since you moved? Surely you dined together at the prior estate?”
Arthur shook his head vigorously. “Never. We always ate in the nursery or the schoolroom. Uncle Ambrose was always busy, or out on business…”
Imogen’s brow furrowed. She looked at Ambrose, her expression one of growing confusion and a touch of disapproval. “You’ve never shared a meal with them? In a year? Not even at Christmas?”
“I have duties, Miss Lewis,” Ambrose said stiffly, his grip tightening on his wine glass. “The transition has been… complex.”
The Duke of Kirkhammer remained silent, motioning to a passing footman to refill his wine glass.
