“It’s inefficient.”
“I know of no other way. You cannot ask a lady you admire to dance more than once or twice at any given ball. It would be unseemly.”
Joining her, Christian pulled the teacups from the cupboard. She momentarily marveled at how he seemed to feel as comfortable around her as she did around him. She’d never felt this way with another person. Had he? Not even Cook allowed her this level of freedom at home. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to be with someone who didn’t constantly remind her of appearances and propriety?
“Unseemly?” he said. “I suppose the good news is that I haven’t done so before, and any lady I have asked to dance more than once invariably turns me down.”
Sarah put a hand on her hip and eyed him over the canister. “Why?”
“As I said before, it seems to me that most of the young ladies I’ve taken an interest in have already set their sights on another man.”
Sarah pulled the kettle off the hearth with a towel wrapped around the handle and set it on the counter. “You must take her attention away from the other man.”
“That’s easier said than done.” Christian picked up the kettle and poured the water over the leaves.
“Of course it is. But I’d say a lady who isn’t interested enough in you to be distracted by you when another man is around, probably isn’t your best match.”
He contemplated that for a moment. “Hmm. You may be right, Lady Sarah.”
“Of course I’m right. I’ve been taught about all of these details since I was a child.” She sighed. “I wish I hadn’t been, but it’s mostly all I know.”
He pushed her teacup toward her. “So only two dances, eh?”
She picked it up. “If you do ask her three times, expect her to say no.”
“If I asked you to dance three times, would you say no?”
“Of course.” She winked at him over the rim of her cup.
“My dancing is adequate?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“My repartee witty?”
“Absolutely.” She took a sip of tea.
“My clothing will be up to snuff once I make a visit to the shops you’ve kindly pointed out to me.”
“You cannot go wrong with them.”
“And my beard, sadly, will be gone by the time I return to London.”
“I wouldn’t be so sad about it,” Sarah mumbled, taking another sip.
“Should I mention I live with a well-dressed dog?”
She nearly spit out her tea. Her lips curled into a catlike smile. “It cannot hurt. Though please don’t tell anyone who made Fergus his wardrobe.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t.”
She set down her teacup and made her way to the sofa, where she picked up the little coat she’d been knitting earlier. “By the by, will you come hold him while I fit him?”
“A fitting for a dog?” Christian sounded skeptical at best.
“How else will I be able to tell if I’ve allowed for enough room in the chest?”
Christian shook his head but stood from his seat, moved over to the sofa, sat next to Sarah, and scooped up the dog from the rug.
