“There is no need to apologize. I’m not easily offended.”
“It sounds to me that youwereoffended. So please, accept my apology.”
“I already said there was no need to apologize.” I took a passive glance around the room.
“There must be a reason you sat as far from me as you might a roach,” he said with a laugh.
I met his gaze across the sofa. “Why must there be a reason for everything?”
“There’s always a reason,” he affirmed.
“Perhaps I simply didn’t have a reason to sitcloserto you.”
He threw me a curious look. He leaned in my direction to speak softly in my ear. “Would it help if I told you how beautiful you look?” He raised a questioning eyebrow and smiled crookedly, making that dimple appear again. “Vomit suits you well enough, but this color suits you better, I think.”
My face heated and I looked around, hoping that no one had seen or heard him. What nerve, thinking he could woo me into accepting his apology with a compliment. And a disingenuous one at that. I hardly knew how to accept a compliment from a gentleman; it was even more difficult than accepting his apology. Both made me vastly uncomfortable. I pulled away quickly and scowled at him.
He gave an exasperated sigh. “So you are offended by compliments. Is there anything that doesn’t offend you? If so, I would love to hear it.”
I glared at him, ready to snap a retort that would wipe away his maddening smile and erase that infuriating dimple. But before I could speak, Mrs. Kellaway’s voice pierced the tense silence. “Is something amiss over there?” She gave Owen a stern glance.
She must have noticed my expression. How embarrassing it would be if I were to admit that the only reason Owen was receiving my glare was because he offered an apology and a compliment. “No,” I blurted.
The drawing room door swung open and a footman announced that dinner was ready. My shoulders slumped with relief. Bless that man.
I hurried to escape Owen’s side, but the walk to the dining room required decorum, so I grudgingly took his extended arm in the doorway. In the dining room, Mrs. Kellaway was seated at the head of the table, with her father in the seat of honor to her right, and her mother to her left.
I walked to the table, which was set for seven, but could easily accommodate at least twelve, and took a chair beside Mrs. Everard. Charles sat down beside me, and Peter beside him. Owen took the remaining seat directly across from me.
Frustration bubbled in my stomach. It would be nearly impossible to avoid his eyes with him sitting there. He seemed to recognize my plight, because just as I looked across to him, he flashed a smile in my direction.
I glowered at my plate. Why did he seem to relish in my discomfort? Charles tapped my arm. “What’s wrong, Annette?”
I forced a smile for his sake. “Nothing.”
The first course was brought in—white soup with piles of fresh bread. My mouth watered at the scent. Peter and Charles gaped in wonder as the soup and bread was placed in front of them. Their expressions made my heart sink as I remembered our early months at Oak Cottage. My damaged ribs ached—as if the pain had been provoked by the memory. While I had enjoyed many meals of this grandeur before my parents died, my brothers had never seen such an abundance. I couldn’t provide it for them. When Aunt Ruth had grand meals made, she never shared.
The food was served and everyone lifted their spoons. To my dismay, my brothers surpassed their utensils, sipping their soup straight from their bowls. They picked up large chunks of bread and tore at them with their teeth. One large crumb flew across the table and landed on Owen’s plate.
Mrs. Kellaway looked appalled. Owen was laughing under his breath.
“Peter. Charles,” I hissed. “Use your spoons.” Was it improper to reach across them and force their spoons into their hands? I wanted to prove that my brothers could listen to a simple instruction, but they were too distracted. Theydidn’t listen at all. Instead, Peter began licking his fingers and proceeded to wipe them on the white table linen.
I was tempted to put my face in my hands and keep it there for the rest of my life.
“Peter, Charles,” Owen said.
They looked up for a moment. A droplet of soup dripped off Charles’s chin.
“Did you forget your spoons?”
My brothers each offered a bashful grin. “Oh, yes. I forgot,” Peter said, lifting his arm to quickly wipe his chin.
Owen chuckled. “And your serviettes?”
I had been frozen with mortification, but I managed to laugh and grab my own serviette, using it to clean Charles’s face.
Keeping his eyes fixed on Peter, Owen discreetly lifted his serviette to his own mouth, demonstrating how it was to be done. Peter mimicked the action, a proud smile on his face.
