10
GEORGE
Mr. Hewitt had boasted that he had one of the best cooks in England, and at no point during the wedding breakfast was this more apparent than when the dessert course was served.
Each table was brought a bewildering range of sweets and puddings: crystal glasses of syllabub and small baked custards, delicate pink blancmanges, tiny tartlets and meringues, light as clouds. Meltingly fragile langues de chat and brightly coloured pates de fruits.
Theo blew out a defeated breath as the dishes were set down. “I don’t think I can manage a bite of this,” he said. Then he glanced at George, and his mouth quirked up in that charming way of his. “I’ll bet you can—I remember very well how much you like your puddings.”
“I do like pudding,” George admitted, “and these look excellent.”
He tasted the blancmange first. It was light and wobbly, almond and rosewater on his tongue. Delicious. Then he worked his way through some of the little tartlets and fruit jellies before moving on to the lemony syllabub, dipping into the sweet mixture with a buttery langues de chat. The little butter biscuits were the only sweet thing Theo deigned to taste, dipping one of them into his dessert wine and taking a bite before leaving the rest of it on his plate, uneaten.
By this time, George was feeling rather full, but he was unable to resist one last treat, a small baked custard. It was the plainest of the desserts on offer, sweet and eggy, fragrant with nutmeg. A flavour of his childhood, it was treat he always associated with his mother. In her last year, it had been her favourite thing to eat. She would often ask for it, though towards the end she rarely managed more than a few bites of the dinner that she took each evening in bed, on a tray over her lap. George usually ended up eating her untouched pudding when he went to say good night to her.
Even now, all these years later, he often thought of those evenings. Of his mother, tucking him into her side, her thin arm about his shoulders, smiling down at him as he spooned up her abandoned desserts. Her face had been gaunt by then, her dark brown eyes enormous and shadowed.
George set his spoon down, the nostalgic flavour still on his tongue, his heart curiously heavy in his chest.
“You certainly do like pudding,” Theo said, his tone amused, but when George looked up, the smile on his face faded. “Oh,” he said. “Is something wrong?”
George made himself smile. “No,” he replied. “I’m fine.” Then, briskly, changing the subject, “Will you be staying in town after the wedding?”
Theo eyed him for a few long moments before he answered. “No, I’m not fond of city life. The sooner I get out of London, the better.” After a moment he added with a crooked smile, “Besides, if I stay much longer, I think my father may try to find an heiress for me. This wedding has given him ideas.”
A strange jolt went through George at that news. “Your father wants you to marry?”
“I believe so,” Theo said with an insouciant shrug of one shoulder, “but he has little to no say in what I do. Anyway, he’s much too lazy to exert himself, particularly given that the family line is already secured. No one can say my brother hasn’t done his duty in procreating heirs.”
“You don’t want children of your own?” George asked softly.
Another shrug. “It’s not as though I have much to pass on. Just some rather modest landholdings I inherited from an uncle recently. Which, incidentally, I plan to sell as soon as possible.”
“Oh?” George said, interested now. “And where are these landholdings?”
“Wales,” Theo said. “North Wales to be exact—which is where I’m going after this wedding.”
“Have you visited before?”
“Just once. My uncle passed away when I was still on the Continent, and I only learned about my inheritance when I returned to England. I headed up to Wales to see the place more or less as soon as I got back, but… well, it was quite a brief visit.” An odd, regretful expression passed over his face; then he firmed his jaw, adding, “This time, I plan to spend a bit longer, get a better of idea of what I have there.”
“I hear it’s a beautiful part of the world,” George said. “I’ve always wanted to visit Snowdonia. Is that anywhere near you?”
Theo’s smile burst over his face. “It’s very beautiful, and yes, Snowdonia only a day’s ride away. I didn’t go there the last time I visited, but I’ve been before. The mountains are glorious.”
“In that case, you must be pleased that your estate is so close to them.”
“I wouldn’t call it an estate, precisely,” Theo said, looking a little embarrassed. “It’s more of a large farm, really. The land is split in half and I’ve got two tenants.” He paused then grimaced, adding, “Unfortunately, my knowledge of land management is sadly lacking, but even I could see there were improvements needed when I visited before. I’ll need to get a better sense of what’s required during this visit.”
George eyed him carefully. “You sound unsure?”
Theo sighed. “Yes. I’m rather out of my depth. My father didn’t think estate management was something my brother or I needed to learn—since we’re gentlemen, you understand. Apparently, no gentleman should ever be the least bit useful.”
“Ah,” George said. “A common view, though not one my father shares.”
“Yes, I remember,” Theo said, smiling almost wistfully. “You used to talk about your father taking you around his estates with him.”
“You remember that?” George said, surprised. He recalled prattling on about all sorts of things to Theo during those long summers at Dinsford Park, but he’d never thought Theo had paid much attention.
