“Will you dine with me this evening?” he asked. “Properly. In the small dining room, not the hall. I find the hall makes conversation feel like a parliamentary session.”
Isadora blinked. It was not what she had expected him to say.
“I would like that,” she said, and was annoyed at how quickly warmth spread through her chest at the invitation, given that they dined together most evenings already and this should not, by any reasonable measure, have felt different.
It felt different.
“Good,” he said. “I find I am looking forward to it.”
“As am I,” she returned, though it cost her slightly more to say it plainly than it had apparently cost him.
He held her gaze a moment longer than necessary. Then he inclined his head and left for his study.
Isadora stood there for a moment, watching him go.
You are going to have to manage this considerably better than you currently are, she thought, with some exasperation directed entirely at herself.
* * *
She wore a green gown.
She had not given it excessive thought. She had chosen it for comfort, for ease, because it did not require Mrs. Holt’s assistance with the laces at the back.
James was already seated when she came in. He rose, pulled out her chair, and his hand rested on the back of it after she sat.
“You look well,” he complimented, settling back into his seat.
“I looked as I did this morning.”
“This morning, you had the expression of a woman arguing with an empty room. That has resolved itself considerably.” He reached for the wine and poured hers first. “What were you arguing about?”
“I was not arguing. I was reading.”
“That was not reading. That was like a man at his club pretending to read the newspaper so no one would speak to him.”
“I have never seen you pretend to read a newspaper.”
“I have done it extensively. It is an art.” He handed her the glass. “The trick is to occasionally turn a page at a plausible interval, regardless of content.”
“And if someone asks what you’ve read?”
“You say ‘shocking, is it not,’ and nod gravely. It works on nearly everyone.”
“That seems like a deeply dishonest system.”
She laughed and stopped immediately when she noticed him watching her.
“You’re staring,” she remarked.
“I’m observing.”
“Is there a difference?”
“Staring is rude. Observing is simply attentive.” He tilted his head slightly. “I’m allowed to be attentive at my own dinner table.”
“You were not this attentive a month ago.”
“A month ago, you would have left the room if I’d been this attentive.” He said it lightly, but something underneath it was not entirely light.
