“You ‘hear’ a great deal,” Soren countered. “The truth is, the natives are not ugly. They are a handsome people who have the same concerns and cares as you or I.”
“It sounds as if you admire these Indians?” Rawlins said.
“I do,” Soren answered. “I’ve worked with them for years. They are our closest allies in the war we fight right now and I respect them. No,” he said, correcting himself. He’d attended too many dinner parties where he’d been “polite,” a condition that was starting to annoy him about himself. “Iadmirethem.” If they knew the whole truth, they would be truly shocked.
Even so, that statement killed conversation. Rawlins pulled a face at Lord Crossley, who hadn’t heard a word of what had been said. “What? What? What?” he repeated, albeit more quietly than before.
Lady Melrose shushed him while, beneath the table, Lady Haddingdon placed her hand on Soren’s thigh.
At first, he thought she’d made a mistake. He looked askance at her. She smiled at him with her squinting eyes. He took her hand and moved it back to her lap, warning her with a pat to keep it there. Her response was an unrepentant burp into her napkin and a signal to the footman that she needed more wine.
She might not know where the salt dish was, but she could unerringly find both his thigh and her wineglass.
With a shake of his head, Soren looked away from her and found himself face to face with Miss Holwell. She had witnessed the bit of lap play. The corners in her mouth curled with disapproval. Coolly, she gave him her shoulder. That momentary interest in him and his life had been dismissed. She had moved her stiff, unyielding attention toward—
Camberly?
Her gaze had gone right to the duke. A look of such heartfelt longing crossed her face that finally Soren understood.
Cassandra Holwell had set her cap for the duke. She’d thought she’d been invited to Mayfield this weekend because Camberly was interested inher.
And she was interested inhim.
Jealousy was an uncomfortable emotion, one Soren had rarely experienced. He felt it now with a vengeance.
Cass was a fool if she thought a miner’s granddaughter could become a duchess. Then again, his mother had always claimed the Holwells were more arrogant about their money and standing than the Yorks could ever have imagined being. Cass’s father had never ceased reaching far above himself. The man’s gall was legendary.
It was also obvious that if Cass had a duke in mind, well then, being a countess would be meaningless.
Soren drained his wineglass and glanced down the table at her father. The man was talking with his mouth full of bread and gesturing wildly with his knife as he declared the Tories were wrong on the agriculture question. He spoke almost as loudly as the deaf Lord Crossley but with the puffed-up consequence of a man who believed his daughter could and should marry a duke.
Camberly was not the man for Cass. Matt needed seasoning. He was a lamb, a dreamer among theton’s wolves. He didn’t need a wife who could do nothing for him save give over her fortune, any more than he needed Letty Bainhurst for a lover.
But how to tell Cass those truths? How to stop her from sending furtive looks in Camberly’s direction? Had there once been a time when he’d been so vulnerable? Or foolish? If there had been, then life had pounded any memory of it out of him.
He wondered what she would say if she knew about Letty? Would she still make adoring calf’s eyes at her duke?
As he remembered, the Cass he’d known in his childhood had been a bit of a stickler when it came to rules. She had delighted in lecturing everyone on manners and good behavior—himself especially. That Cass would never have approved of adultery.
Before he knew what he was about, he leaned toward her. “You know Camberly is not for you.”
Her response was to pretend he hadn’t spoken... just as she’d pretended he hadn’t escorted her in to dinner. Except therewasa slight stiffening in her shoulder blades. She set her soup spoon aside, folding her hands in her lap and looking anywhere but at him.
The game was on. He hated being snubbed, especially since there was no reason for her to have any more pride than he had. Yes, he was practically penniless. But she was the daughter of a buffoon. They were on equal standing in his mind.
“I mean, it is true Camberly needs to marry money, but he has his choice of candidates,” Soren observed conversationally. “He also must be very particular. He will want someone young.”
Thatcomment broke her stony reserve. She swiveled in her seat to look down her nose at him. Her eyes flashed their disdain, and he couldn’t help but smile. He had her. She would not ignore him now—
“Bread, my lady?” A servant offered the bread basket between them, breaking the moment.
She nodded. The servant put a piece on her plate. She busied herself with knife and butter.
Once again, she refused to look at Soren, but she was also not paying attention to Camberly. As far as Soren was concerned, that was a mark for his side.
The servant offered him bread. “Please. Thank you,” he said cheerily and broke his bread apart.
Her eyebrow lifted. “When did you start speaking so familiarly to servants?” Her tone could have cut glass. God, he prayed her pomposity was a veneer. He suddenly realized that perhaps it was his mission to snap her out of it.
