The dining room had been arranged for a small party. No footmen standing at attention, no elaborate service, just the family table laid with candles and good china and thecomfortable warmth of people who did not need to perform for one another.
Edward carved the roast at the head of the table while Sophia directed the placement of dishes with the quiet authority she brought to everything. Lord and Lady Brimsey occupied the seats near the fire, her mother already dabbing at her eyes because baby Jane had smiled at her during the apéritif, and Lady Brimsey considered this a sign of advanced intelligence.
Aunt Margaret settled into her chair and surveyed the table.
“The lamb smells acceptable,” Margaret announced.
“High praise from Lady Oldbarrow,” Edward said. “I shall inform Cook that she has achieved the impossible.”
“Do not mock me, Edward.”
“I would never dream of mocking you. I value my life too highly.”
Aunt Margaret’s mouth twitched. She reached for her wine.
Hugo took the seat beside Lily. He pulled out her chair and waited for her to sit, and his fingers brushed the back of her shoulder as she settled in. The contact lasted less than a second. Lily kept her eyes on her plate.
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
“Of course, Lady Lily.”
The formality sat between them like a wall built brick by brick from all the things they could not say.
Your Grace. Lady Lily.
As though the terrace had never happened. As though his mouth had never traced the inside of her thigh, and her fingers had never tangled in his hair, and the sound of her own voice crying out in the dark had not echoed in her memory every night since.
She unfolded her napkin and placed it in her lap.
The meal began, and Edward told a story about Oliver’s attempt to teach Leo to fence with wooden spoons, which had resulted in a broken vase and a philosophical disagreement about the rules of engagement.
Sophia corrected three of his details and added two he had left out. Lord Brimsey laughed until his eyes watered. Lady Brimsey excused herself to check on Jane and returned with the baby in her arms, who promptly fell asleep against her grandmother’s shoulder.
Hugo turned to Lord Brimsey. “How are the roses this year, my lord? I recall you mentioning a new variety last spring.”
“Thriving, thank you. The Damask cuttings took beautifully.”
“And the wine you brought, Your Grace?” Margaret lifted her glass and examined it against the candlelight. “What are we drinking?”
“A Burgundy. From a vineyard I visited last autumn near Beaune.”
“Which slope?”
“Southeast facing.”
“Soil?”
“Limestone and clay.”
“Drainage?”
“Excellent, Lady Oldbarrow. I inspected it personally.”
“You inspected the drainage of a French vineyard.” Aunt Margaret took a sip. “Personally.”
“I take wine seriously.”
“Clearly.” She took another sip and set the glass down. “It is acceptable. You may continue to select the wine for future dinners.”
