Heathcliff didn’t try to stop his grin as he watched Miss Miranda. To her credit, she didn’t so much as flinch when Iris spoke her name, but, after a moment’s pause, she very intentionally turned to face her charge.
“Yes, Iris?” she asked, as if they weren’t burning down the dining room with their intensity.
Heathcliff didn’t cast Iris a glance, but watched Miss Miranda with that same intensity, hoping the force of his gaze would fluster her. It was an immature choice, but he found it quite satisfying. If she noted his regard, she didn’t appear to be affected by it.
Or perhaps she was overly skilled at self-control.
Iris continued. “I, that is,” Iris’s tone was hesitant, but as she continued, it carried a resolute confidence, “I loved the food in India. Have you ever tried Indian foods, Miss Miranda?”
Heathcliff tilted his head, awaiting Miss Miranda’s answer. It was a curious question, and quite random, but he found it pricked his curiosity as well, so he waited.
Miss Miranda’s head tilted ever so slightly, giving him a lovely view of the clavicle that had utterly distracted him last night. The memories of their kiss flooded his mind, and his body responded in kind. Slightly uncomfortable at being so aroused at the dinner table, he relaxed his position and leaned back in his chair, thankful for the tablecloth and table adding further discretion.
“I haven’t had the pleasure of trying a great many diverse dishes as you have, Iris. I’d love to hear more about them.” And, leaning forward slightly, she gave a warm smile. “Brilliant question.”
Heathcliff pieced the conversation together, realizing Iris had been following earlier instruction on conversation and was attempting to apply her skill to the task. He awaited Iris’s response, thankful for the distraction from his more engaging thoughts.
“The curry is quite potent and can be very spicy. I do adore spicy food, but my mother always was cautious. If she ate too much, it would cause her to lose sleep over a bit of a fire in her belly,” Iris explained.
“We normally don’t discuss bodily maladies at the supper table, just for reference, but continue,” Miss Miranda instructed kindly. She hadn’t turned her gaze to him once, but kept her attention on Iris.
Iris nodded, accepting the gentle reprimand, and continued: “In India there are a great many dishes that implement the use of lentils. Because they don’t eat their cows, you understand. They use lentils in many ways that we’d use as a source of meat. It’s fascinating, and I found that while I’m as happy with a beef roast as any other Englishwoman, I didn’t miss it as much in India. They are quite talented in the kitchens,” Iris finished, and Heathcliff turned his gaze to Miranda, wondering how she’d respond.
“I don’t believe I’ve ever eaten a lentil. What about you, my lord?” She turned to him, and he felt Iris’s gaze as well.
He blinked, thought over the question, and frowned. “You know, I don’t think I have.” He’d been offered a few dishes that contained them, but he hadn’t ever actually partaken.
He met Miss Miranda’s gaze, then froze.
She was grinning, far too eagerly to be associated with his response.
Damn it all.
He belatedly realized he had played right into her hand.
After keeping his silence all evening, in one quick turn, she’d cracked his silence and disarmed him entirely.
It was dangerous, it was delightful, and he felt as if he should bow to such a worthy opponent.
But instead, he merely gave a tight smile, remembered his resolution to keep himself from her, and stood from the dinner table.
The ladies followed his example and stood as well. He didn’t meet either of the ladies’ gazes, but gave a smart bow and quit the room as if the devil were on his heels. Because if he stayed, he would surely fail, and likely fall for her charms once more.
And failure had never been so tempting.
