The viscount escorted his wife, which left Grace with Lord Sterling. She took a hesitant step forward, waiting for him to offer his arm. He rounded the sofa, then paused, turning back to her. Grace moved to catch up, nearly tripping on the woven rug. His gaze was on her, studying her. It reminded her of the time she was in Egypt and watched a clockmaker. The man’s bald head was bent over his desk, his expression focused, sharp, and intuitive as he studied the gears before slowly making adjustments, learning what worked, what didn’t.
Lord Sterling was watching her as if trying to figure out how she worked, and why. She kept her expression neutral as she placed her hand on his offered arm, and waited for him to lead the way to the dining room. They fell into step easily enough, yet Grace couldn’t help but notice that her head only reached the level of his jawline. In fact, as she hazarded a glance in his direction, she figured that even if she were to step on a footstool, she wouldn’t be the same height as he. Of course, it would depend on the height of the footstool—
“Do you often stare at new acquaintances?” he asked, meeting her gaze.
Heat rushed to her cheeks, and her body grew feverish in embarrassment. She’d rather forgotten that her glance had turned into study, and that study had probably appeared like a rude stare. Well, nothing to do but walk through it.
“Pardon me. I was . . . well, I was deciding what height of footstool I’d need to compare with you in height.” She glanced down the hall, a new wave of heat feeding the surely crimson blush on her face.
“Footstool?” He asked, his tone disbelieving and yet, diverted.
She risked a glance at his face, hoping to be able to read his expression. He didn’t seem offended, just . . . curious. Curiosity she could work with without fear, or at least, much of it. “Yes, footstool. Since I’ve already made a cake of myself, if you don’t mind me asking, just how tall are you?”
His lip twitched into a smile. “Six feet and three inches.”
She returned the smile, only hers was far broader. “Ah, I wasn’t far off. I was guessing around six feet, two inches.”
“Very astute.” He nodded, his grin widening. “And how tall are you, Miss Grace?”
“Not very common dinner conversation, is it?” she teased. “Five feet and six inches. Not much above average for England, but I was a veritable giant in India,” she added with a daring smile.
“India you say?” He raised an eyebrow. “Yes, and I’m assuming if you’re considered a giant, I cannot imagine the category to which I’d belong.”
She tipped her chin upward, then narrowed her eyes. “A Titan.”
He let out a loud laugh, then sobered slightly as if abashed by his unrestrained amusement. “A Titan?”
“Yes, you are aware of Greek mythology . . .” she asked with slight sarcasm, then regretted her bold move. Sarcasm wasn’t ladylike.
Well, neither was telling a gentleman he was a Titan, she supposed.
She glanced to Samantha as the viscount pulled out her chair for her. At least she couldn’t hear the conversation.
“I’m very well versed in Greek mythology and history,” he answered. “And it’s obvious that you know your studies as well.”
She glanced at him, curious as to what his verdict on her education would be. In her experience, there were only two reactions: offense at a woman receiving such an extensive education, or begrudging respect—which was usually earned only on rare occasions.
She was rather expecting the first reaction.
He didn’t reply, but simply pulled out a chair for her, then took a seat himself.
As the soup was served, the viscount turned to Lord Sterling. “We’ve received several invitations, but so far I haven’t selected which event will be our first to attend. Do you have any suggestions?”
Grace sipped her beef barley soup and listened intently. It was an odd paradigm. Weren’t women usually the ones who knew the answers to social questions? Yet, in her experience, both the viscount and Lord Heightfield were better versed in society, parties, planning, and gossip than any woman she’d ever met.
Of course, she had never been to London before, and all her conjecture might very well change once she met some of the ladies in residence. But for the moment, the truth still held.
Lord Sterling’s brow furrowed slightly as he considered the question. “Can you tell me the invitations you’ve received?”
“Yes.” The viscount nodded. “Herford, Longfitt, Sheffold, and . . .” He frowned then turned to his wife.
“Lord and Lady Drummel,” Samantha supplied with a helpful smile.
The viscount nodded, then turned to his friend.
Lord Sterling took a spoonful of soup and ate it as he seemed to consider the names mentioned. “For the moment, ignore Longfitt and Sheffold. Both are grabbing for attention and all the focus will be on their daughters. Both families have girls in their first season.”
“Noted,” the viscount replied.
