Thankfully, Killian Crewes stood to pronounce a toast, congratulating his nephew for making at least one friend at school. The distraction allowed Ryan to regain control. She glanced at her escort. He was seated beside her, oblivious to her descent into tears. Perhaps, she thought, she should give the young man the benefit of the doubt.
She cleared her throat. She smiled at his shoulder. In an effort to catch his eye, she leaned, and leaned, andleanedso far over, a lock of her hair nearly dropped into her soup. She strained to hear the conversation he was having with his friend. Finally, she simply interjected.
“Mr. Stanhope? Did you attend Eton like Lord Bartholomew and your brother?”
Nevil Stanhope paused in his eating, the gesture of someone stunned that he’d been addressed. He did not answer. He glanced at his friend who blew out a laugh.
“But have you ever traveled to any of the Channel Islands, Mr. Stanhope?” she tried again. “We’re not socosmopolitan as London or even Oxford, but the view of the sunset will take your breath away.”
Again, he blinked straight ahead. He regarded her like a small dog who had escaped its owner and nipped and barked at his heels, as if he couldn’t believe the affront.
And now, as the fragrant courses of dinner were served, one by one, Ryan’s reaction became laughter, not tears. The audacity of these men to be inconvenienced by her simple bid for dinner conversation. She could, she realized, do this all night.
“Is there particular coursework at Oxford that interests you most?” she asked, speaking as if they were having a real conversation instead of a one-sided list of questions.
“But have you had the opportunity to attend the opera in London?” she wondered.
“There is a spice in these vegetables that I cannot name, but do you taste it?” she inquired.
“Is there some sentimental value attached to the jeweled pin on your lapel?” she ventured.
After the fourth course, Ryan gave up. The men were determined to ignore her, and Elise was staring down the table with real concern. Ryan had no wish to distress her. Soon, pudding had come and gone, and the ladies were invited to retire to the drawing room for sherry and hot chocolate. The gentlemen would linger around the table with the port. By the time they joined the women, Ryan would have made her excuses and gone.
Mayapple’s formal drawing room was lined with windowed doors that opened to a stone terrace. The terrace was bordered by a wide railing that overlooked the garden. When the weather was fair, the doors wereopened so ladies might enjoy the breeze or drift outside to view the night sky. Tonight, the servants had opened the doors to a gorgeous September moonrise. Ryan had never been so grateful to flee into the darkness. She’d passed her wedding night enduring the rudeness of arrogant dandies. She wanted nothing more than to pass ten minutes alone in the cool, cleansing air, then bid Elise and Killian Crewes good-night.
Unfortunately, her defection inspired a terrace migration. Soon the other ladies were spilling onto the flagstones. Lady Glynnis tottered to the railing, squinting into the dark garden. Elise Crewes led Mrs. Stanhope, now almost too drunk to walk, to the iron table and chairs. Five minutes later, the gentlemen meandered onto the terrace with glasses of port and pungent cheroots.
Ryan smothered a groan. She’d not expected the men to descend before she’d made her excuses and retreated to her bedroom. Moving quickly, she turned the corner where the terrace wrapped around the side of the house. Here the flagstones ended, but there was a door to the solarium or—even better—steps that led to a garden path that would take her to the kitchen entrance. It would be rude to slip away without saying good-night to Elise, but—
“Look at you, hovering in the shadows like a creature of the night.”
Ryan spun around. Remarkably, unbelievably, Nevil Stanhope and his friend had come upon her in the secluded corner. They hovered, drinks in one hand, smoky cheroots in the other.
“I beg your pardon?” she said. The words came outon a bitter little laugh.Nowthey deigned to address her?Now?
“Lady Ryan,” drawled Mr. Fielding, as if he were testing the sound of it in his mouth.
Ryan recovered her composure and raised her chin. “You’ll have to excuse me, gentlemen. I was bound for—”
“Come, come,come now, my lady,” entreated Nevil Stanhope, his voice a slurred singsong. He pivoted to the right, effectively blocking her exit.
Ryan was so shocked at the aggressive move, she skittered two steps back. The chill of the night felt suddenly ten degrees colder.
“Don’t tell me you’releaving us,” he cajoled. “We haven’t had the opportunity to answer your great many questions. We’ve finally had time to think of clever answers. You’d not want me to be a bore, would you, Lady Ryan? You’d not want me to venture answers to your questions before I’d given them proper thought?”
Ryan wanted to tell him that she doubted he was capable of proper thought. She wanted to tell him that there wasn’t enough time in the world. She wanted to inform him that “quality” did not directly correlate to money or fashion or even an Oxford degree; decency and manners were what set people apart. More than any of these, however, she wanted togo; but they were hemming her in.
“Help me out here, Fielding,” mused Nevil Stanhope, “what did she ask?Did weattend the same school as Dennis and Bartholomew? Well,Idid. Charlie here was too much of a degenerate and was askedto leave after the first year. Luckless bastard finished at—where was it, Fielding?”
“Sod off, Stanhope,” his friend said, laughing. “Degenerate, my arse. Takes one to know one, I always say.”
“Answer me this, Lady Ryan,” inquired Mr. Stanhope, turning back to her. It was too dark for her to clearly see his face, but his tone was mocking. Ryan pivoted, hoping to shove between them and flee.
“Tut, tut, tut,” discouraged Mr. Stanhope, stepping closer. “Let’s not retreat into shyness now. We’re just getting to know each other. Why the rush?”
He stepped up in the same moment Ryan moved sideways, and she collided with his chest. He reached out with cold, clammy fingers, steadying her with a hand to her arm. His fingers felt like wet rope. She jerked back.
“Where’s the enthusiasm we endured over dinner?” asked Mr. Fielding, boxing her in on the other side.
