“Six, actually,” Richardson said. “I’ll call for a maid to clean it up.”
“In the meantime, perhaps Your Grace will allow me to show you how to hold that infernal teacup that has you so overwrought?” Gabriella suggested as she gestured toward the parlor where his sisters sat waiting.
Huntley eyed her with suspicion, but then relented with a nod, though he did not look the least bit pleased. “Very well.”
“Is everything all right?” Juliette asked when Gabriella returned with Huntley on her heels.
“Quite,” Gabriella assured her. She smiled as she resumed her seat. “Your brother is simply having a bit of difficulty handling the china.”
Muttering something inaudible, the duke took a seat next to Gabriella, which prompted her to look at him. To her surprise, he didn’t look the least bit annoyed but rather . . . amused. Pleased by his reaction to her dry sense of humor, she struggled to refrain from smiling too broadly herself. Instead, she tried to set her mind on the task at hand, which was to teach Huntley the art of taking tea with the innate skill of a true Englishman. Lacking a spare cup and saucer, she offered him her own, setting it down before him with as much professional poise as she could manage.
I am a rather large man.
She willed her thoughts to remain sensible by sitting back stiffly with her chin held high and her hands neatly folded in her lap. Meanwhile, the duke stared at the delicate cup and saucer like some might stare at a venomous snake. “Go ahead,” Gabriella urged. “Pick it up in whichever way you find most comfortable.”
He leaned forward hesitantly, frowned a bit and then placed one hand on either side of the cup, lifting it as though it were a bowl. Mission accomplished, he raised his eyes and looked at Gabriella with a hopeful expression and a lopsided grin. “This feels right.”
“Hmm,” she tried to think of how best to help him. “Keep holding on to the cup’s ear with your right hand, and let go completely with your left.”
He did as she asked, two fingers curled through the ear, braced against his thumb, while another two fingers rested beneath the cup, propping it up. “Like this?”
“Not quite. Perhaps if you could . . .” she gestured toward him in an effort to show how his fingers ought to be placed, but he wasn’t getting it.
Knowing what had to be done, she got up and walked around to his other side. “Like this,” she said as she proceeded to maneuver his fingers into the correct positions.
Her ability to think straight immediately faltered at the feel of his warm skin beneath her fingertips, and although she stood at his shoulder with some measure of distance between them and both his sisters present, she became instantly aware of his masculinity. It flowed toward her, compounded by an earthy scent of leather and sandalwood, until she found herself surrounded and overwhelmed.
So she drew away and took a hasty step back. “Like that,” she said, surprised by the gravelly tone of her voice. “That will do.”
Tilting his chin, he raised his gaze to hers. A crease formed on the bridge of his nose. “But Richardson said that I was supposed to straighten the ring finger and pinky.” He tried to do as the secretary had advised, but the cup simply slipped from between his fingers, thudded against the carpet and rolled beneath the table. The tea that had been inside it went flying in every direction.
The duke’s jaw hardened as he looked down at the spillage, his mouth drew tight, and he suddenly looked as though he might slam his fist against something in pure frustration. Until Gabriella hastily distracted him by saying, “Never mind what Richardson told you about how to hold a teacup. I’ve seen several gentlemen struggle with this particular exercise over the years.”
“Really?” Juliette sounded fascinated.
“It is understandable considering the superior size of a man’s fingers when compared to those of a woman’s.” Returning to her seat, Gabriella told Huntley, “The way you held it before—as I showed you—is good enough. Nobody will fault you for it.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” Huntley said as he reached beneath the table and retrieved the fallen teacup. “I’d hate to be judged on the proper position of my fingers alone.”
“Then you needn’t fret,” Gabriella told him frankly, “for I can assure you that you will be judged on a great deal more than that.”
By the time Friday afternoon arrived, bringing with it the delivery of fresh evening attire, Raphe began having second thoughts about his stubborn determination to show up the ton.
Perhaps he ought to send an excuse?
“So a viscountess, countess and marchioness are addressed as, ‘Your Ladyship’ or Lady title,” Humphreys was saying, while Raphe buttoned his cuffs. “Their husbands would naturally be, ‘Your Lordship’ or ‘My Lord,’ or simply their title, while their daughters would be ‘Lady’ plus first name.”
Sighing, Raphe took a seat on the brocade-clad chair that stood in his bedchamber and reached for one of his shoes. “Yes, Humphreys. I remember.”
“What about their eldest sons?”
Having pushed his feet inside the shoes, Raphe began doing up the laces. “Lord honorary title,” he said with the confidence of a man who’d spent the last week cramming his head full of what he considered to be the stupidest details in the world.
“And their youngest sons?”
“They would be Mr. last name.”
Humphreys nodded. A spark lit in his eyes. “And the youngest son of a duke or a marquess?”
