She would be, without question, an excellent stepmother.
Dinner for the adults that evening began as a strained affair. Isabella had overseen the arranging of the table herself, ensuring that no unpolished silver or cracked china was pressed into service. At first glance, the array of food on the sideboard gave a favorable impression. Closer inspection, however, revealed overdone beef, undercooked pheasant, soggy vegetables, and sauces with a decidedly burnt aroma.
Lord Poole made no comment on the unappetizing food, instead making a valiant effort to consume as much of his dinner as possible. Damien was uncharacteristically silent during most of the meal, but could not resist a comment when a dry piece of beef flew off Lord Poole’s plate as he was attempting to cut it.
“I do hope you are enjoying our simple English fare, Poole,” the earl commented with a mocking grin.
“As much as you are, I feel certain, Saunders,” Lord Poole retorted. “Hearty English fare can have great appeal. I often find the French chefs vastly overrated, don’t you, Miss Browning?”
“On occasion,” Isabella commented, privately thinking how wonderful it would be to be feasting on some overrated French chef’s efforts right now.
“I recall one evening dining with Lord and Lady Lofting,” Lord Poole continued. “They so often boasted of having the finestchef de cuisinein London, but the man was a fright. On the night I was in attendance, he deliberately threw an entire tureen of hot lobster bisque onto the kitchen floor.”
“How childish,” Isabella commented. “Why did the chef do such a thing?”
“Apparently he was piqued by tardy arrivals in the dining hall.” Lord Poole lowered his head apologetically. “Regretfully, I must confess to being among them.”
“Regretfully?” Damien’s brows rose slightly. “I strongly suspect you had prior knowledge of the Frenchman’s obsession with promptness, Poole.”
Lord Poole smiled broadly. “Perhaps I did hear a rumor or two about it at my club.” He took a long swallow of his wine. “Still, I can’t image a man would be so foolish to allow a servant to take such advantage.”
“Indeed. How utterly ridiculous,” Damien responded in a mocking tone.
Isabella cleared her throat noisily at the remark, her mind filling with the endless occasions when she had clearly overstepped her role as the earl’s employee.
Mustering her courage, she risked a glance at Damien. He stared boldly at her, his gray eyes challenging. A quickening sensation jolted unexpectedly through her. Isabella’s breath caught in her throat and her mind went blank for a crucial instant. Their eyes met and held, and Isabella’s heart swelled with emotion.
The earl’s lips curved slightly in an intimate, secret smile that left her feeling as if she had done something that pleased him enormously. She shyly returned his smile, and Damien winked broadly at her. Isabella’s fork clattered noisily to her plate.
Her hands trembled as she reached down to retrieve her cutlery, while the strange, heady feeling persisted. Pulse hammering, Isabella deliberately took a large bite of dry beef, waiting for her scattered senses to return.
Fortunately, Lord Poole appeared unaware of her predicament. Polite conversation resumed. Then Jenkins brought in a silver bowl filled with strawberries.
“Luscious, ripe fruit grown on my own land,” Damien stated proudly, his eyes pinned on Isabella. “Sweet nectar from the gods.”
Isabella felt his stare, but refused to raise her chin. She elected instead to gaze at the fruit on her plate and remembered, with almost sad longing, the tenderness, the passion, the gentleness of his kisses earlier in the evening.
“You sound just like a yeoman farmer, Saunders,” Lord Poole said scornfully, but he filled his plate with the appetizing morsels.
“Farming is an honest, noble profession, Poole. One I am proud to be successfully engaged in. Over the years I’ve learned a great deal from the men who work my lands.” Damien leaned back casually in his chair. “Did you know that the secret to such large, sweet berries is an abundance of aged cow manure mixed in the soil?”
Lord Poole quickly dropped the strawberry he had been about to put in his mouth. It remained untouched upon his plate alongside the other luscious berries.
“Shall we adjourn to the salon, gentlemen?” Isabella hastily suggested. It seemed pointless to suggest the men indulge in port and cigars together while she withdrew. They would most likely come to blows if left alone.
In anticipation of this moment, she had asked Fran to ensure that the room was properly cleaned, aired, and fit for company.
Determined to favor neither man, Isabella ignored the two outstretched hands eager to assist her from her chair and majestically sailed from the dining room. Damien and Lord Poole followed complacently in her wake, but Isabella was not foolish enough to believe impending disaster had been completely thwarted. It was absurdly early to suggest retiring, and there were still several hours left in the evening for the uneasy peace to be shattered.
With each clicking step she took across the unpolished oak-floored hallway, Isabella racked her brain, searching for a stimulating yet safe subject upon which the three of them could engage in conversation. A true challenge indeed.
Lord Poole unexpectedly came to the rescue. Spying the recently polished pianoforte by the salon windows, he asked, “Are you musically inclined, Miss Browning?”
“In a rather limited fashion, Lord Poole.”
He smiled encouragingly. “Perhaps you will be kind enough to favor us with a song.”
“I shall gladly play a tune, Lord Poole,” Isabella replied with a twinkling laugh, “but I must forgo the song. My grandfather once likened my voice to fingernails scratching a chalkboard. I regret to inform you that it was, in truth, a kind comparison.”
