“She’s rather deaf.”
Henry’s eyes snapped open.
Lady Margaret leaned closer—close enough that he caught the scent of lavender and something else. Soap, maybe. Something clean and simple that had no business making his pulse stutter.
“I beg your pardon?” he managed.
“Mrs. Sims.” Margaret’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial murmur. “She’s rather deaf. If you want to converse, you’ll have to get her attention first. Then speak quite a bit louder. Though I should warn you, she still won’t respond. She never does when the dinner is good.”
Henry stared at her.
She stared back and bit her lower lip. So sweet. Her eyes weren’t just brown, they were amber in the candlelight. Warm and alive and dancing with something that looked suspiciously like amusement.
“You’re telling me,” Henry said slowly, “that I’ve been attempting to discuss meat with a woman who cannot hear me and wouldn’t respond even if she could.”
“Precisely.”
“And you let me continue.”
“I was curious to see how long you’d persist.” Her lips twitched. “You’re very determined. It’s admirable.”
“It’s mortifying.”
“That too.” She took a sip of wine, and he could have sworn she was hiding a smile behind the glass. “If it helps, I don’t think anyone else noticed. They’re all too busy pretending to enjoy the aspic.”
“It’s terrible.”
“Unspeakably so,” she agreed. “I’m fairly certain it’s holding a grudge.”
Henry laughed. The sound came out too loud, too surprised. Several heads turned in their direction.
Margaret didn’t seem to notice. Or if she did, she didn’t show it. “So”—she settled back in her chair with an air of someone preparing for a long negotiation—“since Mrs. Sims is unavailable for discourse, and Lord Cavendish has decided I need protecting from the scandal of male dinner companions, I suppose that leaves you and me to discuss the evening’s offerings.”
“Are you always this direct?”
“Only when I’m exhausted by pretense.” She paused, and something flickered across her face—vulnerability, maybe, or regret. “Forgive me. That was inappropriate.”
“It was honest.” Henry believed truth should be paramount in conversation. He found himself leaning toward her before he realized what he was doing. Close enough to catch the scent of lavender. Close enough to be improper.
He didn’t lean back. “Does that mean you’re partial to beef? Since we’re being honest.”
She considered this with the gravity most people reserved for affairs of state. “I quite enjoyed the mutton. The vegetables really complement the dish.”
“The vegetables.”
“Yes.” She met his eyes. Held them. “Specifically, the peas.” She burst out laughing, then instantly buried her mouth in her napkin.
“The peas,” he repeated, trying hard to suppress his mirth.
“They’re hopeful.”
Henry’s brain stuttered. “I’m sorry?”
Must. Not. Laugh.
“Peas are hopeful. They’re small and round and ridiculously cheerful despite being surrounded by thick gravy and chunks of mutton. They have no business being that optimistic. And yet.” She gestured to her plate with her fork. “There they are. Stubbornly bright green.”
He stared at her.
