“Thank you,” she croaked.
But when she lifted the refilled glass to her mouth to wet her suddenly parched lips, her hand trembled and she spilled a little.
“Blast!” she exclaimed, seeing a few drops of red wine on her pale gray silk. It was stupidly clumsy, but Hargrove and his intense masculinity unnerved her. Hurriedly setting the glass down, she drew a handkerchief from her reticule and dabbed at the small stain.
Small or not, it was conspicuous. She closed her eyes a moment and wished it away.
“Are you well?”
“Another gown to worry over,” she said quietly. “If it were a grease stain, I would use chalk or perhaps rectified spirits of wine—”
“Wine on a wine stain?”
“This isn’t funny. For red wine on silk, I need gin and honey, I think.”
“Are you drinking the dress or cleaning it?” he quipped.
“I don’t suppose you have any ox-gall?”
Hargrove looked startled. “No, I don’t. At least I don’t think I do.”
“That’s extraordinarily careless of you,” she admonished, “but I expect your laundress does or knows where the closest butcher’s is.”
“The butcher wouldn’t be open at this hour in any case. Won’t boiling hot water do the trick?”
She almost snapped at him but caught herself. After all, she didn’t want to miss a free meal.
“One doesn’t put silk in boiling water. No more than one ever submerges wool in water, not unless you want to have a version of your suit in miniature.”
She pulled on the edges of the skirt, holding it up to examine.
“Salt maybe,” she mused, “or urine.”
“Urine!” he repeated, sounding horrified. “Let’s go back to the ox-gall.”
The tone of his voice would have made her laugh if the matter of an unwearable gown didn’t make her wish to cry. Men were squeamish about the everyday things that women dealt with. Her last lady’s maid in London could handle all manner of stains and kept Glynnis’s clothing in perfect condition, but it was still somewhat of a mystery to her as she attempted to do the same.
Releasing the fabric back onto her lap, she accepted the fact she simply could not wear the gown again until she could get it to a professional. The Old Ship manager was too expensive, and she had no idea to whom he sent her clothing the previous time. All she knew was that he’d added an ungodly sum to her account.
Feeling subdued, she didn’t answer when Hargrove asked her about whether the hotel was noisy in the evenings or early mornings.
She wanted to close her eyes and contemplate how she’d reached this point where a couple drops of wine were her undoing. Her brother would probably dump an entire bottle over his own head and laugh it off.
“Miss Talbot?” he prompted.
“It is not noisy,” she said. “And it wouldn’t matter if it were since I won’t be there much longer.”
“No?” he asked. “Where will you be?”
Because she was tired of being brave, she said, “I haven’t the foggiest notion.”
Her treacherous insides grumbled again.
Hargrove rose to his feet and offered her his hand, “Come along, Miss Talbot. Let’s make some tooth music and take the wrinkles out of your stomach, as they say. Then you can tell me why you’re moving from the jolly Old Ship.”
She took his hand, glad for it since all the wine had gone to her head and left her wobbly and feeling a little loose-tongued and silly. In fact, she wanted to toss herself at his feet and beg for assistance. Instead, as they walked into his dining room, her tears finally spilled over.
***
