That seemed to be a bone of contention.
He put his saucer down with a loud clink. Even Darragh reacted. He uncrossed his legs, as if ready to stand.
Talia leaned back in her seat. Mr. Ross was passionate, too passionate about how his hosts reacted.
“Those poets have done an irreversible damage to the intelligent language.” Had he not just been praising her beauty like a poet? “I was schooled in Oxford, a prestigious university, and none of the boys in me class could master the language like I did. That should tell ye how hard French is.”
She was well aware that ladies in London grasped French before the age of fourteen.
Whata lying oaf!
She could reject him on the basis of being a lying oaf, which had to pass as a good reason for Darragh. What sort of lady wanted a liar for a husband? First, he would talk about petty things like smoking after he pretended to quit, then gambling after visiting a friend. Then he would be conned and gamble their fortune away. Then he would run away, leaving her to fend for herself and their children.
Even as she thought it, she knew that it was all tall tales. She could envision Darragh’s scowl as he waited for her to wrap up the conversation.
“I would say it is the hardest language in the world,” Mr. Ross added.
Her irritation flared at the pomp.
“Other studies show that oriental languages are harder. Do ye only believe French is the hardest language because ye have mastered it in its entirety?”
Mr. Ross looked away from her, contemplating her question and the insult behind it. “I daenae shun literature in its entirety.”
The coward’s way out.
He should have been vexed with her. Thrown a fit, smashed his cup on the floor, reproached her rudeness, and stormed out.
Talia rolled her eyes when he reached for the teapot once more. Her own tea had grown cold.
“When me children are born, I would like to read to all twelve of them during bedtime.”
Twelve?
The tea went down the wrong pipe, and she erupted in a fit of coughing. Panicked, Mr. Ross patted himself for a kerchief. He rose, having trouble producing it.
Talia cursed inwardly. Was this how she was going to die? Choking on afternoon tea in front of the buffoon who caused it? Tears welled up in her eyes as she coughed harder.
A kerchief appeared in front of her, but she could see Mr. Ross gesticulating out of the corner of her eye. Darragh pressed his hand to her back and brought the kerchief to her mouth. He looked focused, determined to soothe her. She let him hug her and massage her back.
Slowly, she regained her composure. His hand remained on her back even after she took the kerchief from him. She was thoroughly embarrassed, knowing that her saliva was on the tips of his fingers.
She willed him to leave, remove his hand from her back, but he did not. Until she looked up at him, he stayed by her side, then he left as if nothing had happened.
She wiped the corners of her mouth, then her forehead, and then hid the frightening thing away. If she looked at it any longer, she would not be able to get over her embarrassment.
When she had calmed down, she said to Mr. Ross, “Ye intend to faither twelve children?”
“I have always wanted a big family.” His speech was slow, considerate.
“Yer po—lovely wife…”
“She would understand… Would ye nae?” He looked at her in a way that she found threatening.
“I cannae say I want children of me own.”
She had never been fond of the little critters. When she gave up marriage, she felt no loss for the children she would never bring into this world, which assured her that she would not regret her choices when she grew older.
“Every lass wants children.”
