Cecily was tempted to stand up and request her meal be served in her room, but then Mr. Nottingham would have been left alone with a morose, not to mention, swollen and bruised Flavion. She didn’t know how Flavion had come by the broken nose, but based upon the sudden chill between the two cousins, she assumed they’d skirmished over something or other.
She leaned to the side, peered around the table decorations, and sent Mr. Nottingham an encouraging smile. “You will enjoy the soup,Cousin Stephen,” she spoke innocuously. “This particular recipe is one of Flavion’s favorites. Isn’t that right, Flave?” She called out more loudly, causing her husband to glare at her.
Cousin Stephenmerely nodded. Any conversation to be had that evening was going to be up to her.
“Such glorious colors you’re wearing tonight, my lord.” She could not help but to remark upon Flavion’s marred appearance. “Face paints can hide most of the bruises if you don’t wish Miss Cunnington to see you looking… less than perfect.” She fought to hide a smirk, which she knew would not be very ladylike.
Flavion’s lip curled, and he growled. “I would have you refrain from speaking her name to me, my lady.” He ignored his soup in favor of the wine. “Your lack of discretion merely reminds me of your common roots. That which I would forget if you would only allow me.”
“Flave.” Mr. Nottingham seemed to chastise him by only speaking his name.
“My lack of discretion?Mine, my lord?” She knew it was impolite to have this discussion with Mr. Nottingham present, but her husband had a most absurd perception as to the true nature of reality. “But that I never knew her name, then I would refrain from speaking it.”
Lord Kensington did not appreciate being challenged. “Forgive me, Stephen,” Flavion addressed his cousin. “I’m afraid I have a prior engagement of which I’d forgotten. Perhaps you and I can take port together later. Aftermy wiferetires to her chamber.” Giving up on the dinner entirely, he pushed back his seat and stood, his abrupt movements causing the candles to flicker erratically. He then stormed out of the room without a single word to Cecily. Ah… the joy of marriage.
Flave’s cousin looked over at her with narrowed eyes. “Must you, my lady?”
She ought to feel ashamed. She’d deliberately goaded Flavion while a guest was present. Mr. Nottingham did not deserve such disrespect. And yet, it would have been quite unlike her to sit meekly at the table without mentioning the proverbial elephant in the room. Flave’s bruiseshadbeen rather spectacular. “I never said I would be nice to him, Mr. Nottingham.” She finally answered his question. “I only promised not to have him killed.”
“Ah, yes, of course,” he said. And then she thought she saw him smile, causing her insides to flip over for just a moment.
She could not help but remember the comfort she’d felt when he’d escorted her back to Nottinghouse this afternoon. He’d been protective and kind and fearless. Why, he’d been exactly as she’d always pictured a true hero, rushing in to save a maiden. When she’d realized that it had been his arm reaching out to assist her, she’d wanted to cry in relief. Not only had he chased away her tormentors, he’d assisted her with Chadwick.
Perhaps she ought to feel somewhat ashamed for picking the fight with his cousin tonight.
Only somewhat.
“Please, Mr. Nottingham…” She took on a more conciliatory tone. “…do allow the footman to move your dinner this way. This is ridiculous for us to be sitting with miles between us.Weare not enemies, after all, in spite of your unfortunate family relations.”
This statement did not seem to set well with Flavion’s cousin either. His head snapped up and he sent a tempered glare in her direction. “I am neither an enemy to my cousin nor to you, my lady.”
She could not see his face very well, cast in dark shadows by the numerous candles in the sconces along the walls. During their brief acquaintance, Mr. Nottingham had appeared mostly staid and serious-minded, but she knew he had a sense of humor by the slight jokes he’d made at Flavion’s expense. Except that he hadn’t stated them callously; rather, he’d had a hint of affection in his voice on each occasion. It was as though Flavion were more of a younger brother than a cousin to him.
Hmm, perhaps she ought not to insult her husband’s character if she did not wish to offend Mr. Nottingham.
“Please, won’t you join me so that we can speak civilly throughout our meal? I will abstain from disparaging your cousin this evening. I promise. Let us have a truce for now.”
Acquiescing, he nodded and then actuallyassistedthe footman in moving his place setting toward the end of the table where Cecily sat.
Cecily smiled gratifyingly and took a sip of the soup — and then scrunched up her nose. “Perhaps he left because of the soup. It does taste somewhat off.” She pushed it away and leaned back, eyeing him as he arranged his cutlery in a perfect line. “That’s better, don’t you think?” she said once he appeared to be settled.
He took a spoonful of soup and grimaced as well. “Good God, what’s in this?”
Waving her hand, Cecily was unconcerned. “Don’t eat it. I think the meat may have turned.” She gestured to the footman again. “Peters? Will you remove the soup and bring in the next course, please?”
But Mr. Nottingham was not dissuaded. Pushing back the seat he’d only just occupied, he quickly stood. “Wait a moment.” He held off the servant with his hand then strode down the length of the table. He dipped a spoon into the soup Flavion had been eating and lifted it to his nose. “Flavion’s eaten quite a bit, but his smells fine. Do not eat anything else,” he ordered her before turning toward the footman. “Will you take me to your cook, good man?” Without consulting Cecily any further, he disappeared after the servant with a fixed determination.
Cecily leaned forward and smelled the soup again. It really was rather revolting.
Several minutes passed before Mr. Nottingham returned to the dining room, looking even more grim than usual. As this seemed to be his natural demeanor, Cecily wasn’t really fazed. “Did you chastise Flavion’s cook for the bad soup?”
Mr. Nottingham did not look amused. “I believe it has been doctored intentionally, my lady. By whom, I know not. Your cook says she has had various maids and tradesmen in and out of the kitchen all day and cannot be certain as to who has had access to the dishes being prepared for this evening’s meals.”
“It’s scarcely nothing more than bad soup.” Cecily tried to reassure him. Really, this man needed to learn how to relax. His brow furrowed, and his eyes looked troubled as he sat back down at the table. Although, a little voice whispered inside her, he really was adorably handsome when he scowled and bristled about. And, in contrast to the past month, it was nice to feel as though someone other than herself would tend to her wellbeing.
“No,” he said, casually donning a pair of spectacles that she had not yet seen him wearing. He leaned forward and cautiously dug around the bowl with a fork. “See these leaves? They are wilted and soaked, but I think they were purple. From their shape, I believe them to be monkshood.” He looked up at her meaningfully. “There were not any of them in the pot in the kitchen.”
“Monkshood? You mean wolfsbane?” She’d heard of it as a child, as there had been a few pockets of it growing on her father’s estate up north. It wasverypoisonous. She began licking her lips to ascertain that she did not experience any numbness. She knew that to be the first symptom. “But there is none of it in Flavion’s soup?”
