“The Dowager Countess of—”
A knock sounded, and a maid entered. “We’d like some tea, please,” Huntley told her.
The maid nodded. “Shall I bring some cake as well?”
The duke stiffened. “Well—err . . .” His eyes darted from Gabriella to Richardson and back to Gabriella again. “Cake?” he asked, as though it were much too complicated a matter to contemplate.
Taking pity on him, Gabriella leaned forward in her seat. “A small plate with a slice for each of us,” she whispered.
The duke nodded before returning his attention to the maid. “Per’aps a small plate, with a slice fer each of us?”
Gabriella’s heart clenched at the sound of his unschooled speech. She’d never heard anyone slaughter the English language with such lack of remorse before.
“Very good,” the maid said before disappearing once more.
The duke relaxed against his chair. “Ye were—” He closed his eyes briefly and expelled a deep breath. Opening his eyes again, he spoke with deliberation. “You were saying?”
Gabriella nodded, impressed by his effort to speak correctly. “The Dowager Countess of Fielding is having a dinner party next Friday. She has sent you an invitation in the hope that you will attend since she would like to be the first to show you off.”
“The invitation arrived earlier today,” Richardson said. “I have advised His Grace to decline.”
“Oh good,” Gabriella murmured. “Indeed, that is my reason for calling on you. Lady Fielding is very partial to propriety and etiquette. She prides herself on the company she keeps.”
“Like yer—your mother,” Huntley said, his eyes narrowing slightly.
“Yes, I suppose the two are rather similar in that regard,” Gabriella confessed.
“In other words, she’s a snob.”
Huntley spoke the words not as a question, but as though he’d assessed both women at great length and concluded that this was the most fitting word for them. And for some reason, even though Gabriella knew that there was some truth to it, his censure bothered her. “They are of a certain class, Your Grace, and they have never been accustomed to anything else. You cannot simply expect them to accept . . .” Oh dear. She’d no idea how to finish that sentence without causing offense.
“Yes?” he inquired.
She dropped her gaze. Perhaps coming here had been a mistake.
“I cannot expect ’em to accept what?” Huntley prompted. Although he spoke softly, his tone cautioned her to choose her words carefully.
Swallowing, she tried to think of a polite way of stating the obvious. She glanced at Richardson, whose expression had grown somewhat tight around the edges. Realizing she’d get no help from him, she forced her gaze back to Huntley and braced herself for his response. “To accept a peer with a questionable background.”
Huntley stared at her, his gaze burrowing its way straight through her until she felt herself tremble. “In other words, I’m not worthy to sit at the same table as yer noble self.”
“I—I . . . No, that is not what I meant to say.”
Leaning forward, his gaze caged her until she found it difficult to breathe. When he spoke again, it was with controlled crispness. “Then by all means, yer ladyship, tell me what ye meant by insultin’ me in me own home.”
Shrinking back, Gabriella felt her heart drop. This wasn’t going anywhere near as well as she’d initially hoped, and she hadn’t even suggested helping his sisters yet. “I just meant to warn you of what to expect. These people—”
Another knock at the door brought the maid back. She entered on Huntley’s command, bustling in to set a tray on the table before departing once more.
Thankful for the momentary reprieve, Gabriella nodded toward the teapot. “Shall I pour?”
Huntley hesitated a moment before eventually giving her a curt nod. Gabriella edged forward in her seat, her entire body aware of his direct perusal. Not once did he avert his gaze, the effect sending a trail of heat along her limbs, flushing her skin and tightening her belly. Disturbed by it, she tried to focus on other things, like the tea that she was supposed to serve if she could only stop her hands from trembling.
Taking a deep breath, she strengthened her hold on the teapot and filled three cups. “Milk or sugar?” she asked, her eyes going first to Richardson before sliding across to where Huntley was sitting. Her heart skipped. There was something about his gaze . . . something dark and dangerous and terribly unnerving. She didn’t understand it any more than she understood her reaction to it. Because, although it frightened her, it also intrigued her in a way she’d never been intrigued before. It was a new awareness—the sort that only a woman would feel in the presence of a man who . . .
“Neither,” he said, the word scattering her thoughts.
Jolting slightly, she turned to Richardson. “And for you?”
