Page 7

She found her way to Katherine’s room, and they helped one another with their hair and gowns. Leah didn’t wish to tell Katherine about her mishap earlier that day with Mr. Hawthorne, but she felt near to bursting with the secret. Her cousin seemed to sense her nerves, catching her gaze in the tall mirror.

“Do not fret too greatly about tonight,” Katherine said, giving Leah’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “We are among the first to arrive. Most of the eligible men will be arriving tomorrow.” She finished with Leah’s buttons and turned her around by the shoulders. “Hopefully Grace and Betsey will be close behind. My hair is atrocious.”

Leah laughed, but her mind was still stuck on Katherine’s words about the men who would be arriving the next day.

By the time they made it to the dining room, six other people were already seated. Leah took a quick glance at all the faces, intentionally skimming over Mr. Hawthorne’s near the middle of the table.

She sat as far from him as possible.

When she finally gathered the nerve to glance up, she locked eyes with her seatmate.

The man to her right looked to be near her age, with pin-straight brown hair and spectacles. He seemed tall—slouching as he was in his chair, his lanky limbs tucked beneath the table. He wore a polite smile, eyes slightly magnified behind the lenses of his spectacles. His gaze flickered away as the soup arrived at the table.

His face was certainly more appealing than his posture. Leah studied his profile for too long, but he was still distracted by the soup.

She caught Lady Dalmeer’s gaze, whose lips twisted in a small smirk.

“Mr. Woodward,” her singsong voice carried across the table.

The man sat up straighter, his eyes darting toward the countess.

“May I introduce Miss Leah Sterling?” Lady Dalmeer’s pointed gaze held no small measure of mischief. Leah’s face burned. The woman had clearly caught her staring at him.

Mr. Woodward turned toward Leah with a jolt. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Sterling. Forgive my distraction. I’ve not eaten a thing today.” He laughed, a deep, endearing sound. He pressed his spectacles further up his nose, blinking rapidly as if he had run out of things to say.

Leah smiled. “The soup does look quite enticing.”

“As do y—I mean…” He picked up his cup of water, taking a long sip. A hint of pink touched his cheeks. “I mean to say you look much better than the soup. Not in the same context, of course, as one is a dish, and one is a person. But I daresay you are much more worthy of attention than a dish, and-and I do apologize for my lack of greeting.”

Leah looked down at the table to allow Mr. Woodward to recover from his embarrassment. Her own face heated slightly.

As she looked up, she accidentally met Mr. Hawthorne’s gaze.

His lips twitched.

Was he amused by Mr. Woodward’s efforts? Leah found them endearing. At least the man was trying to be polite. It was a skill Mr. Hawthorne lacked entirely.

Lady Dalmeer spoke again, saving Leah from any attempt at responding to Mr. Woodward. She went around the table introducing all the other guests. Besides Mr. Hawthorne, there was Lady Cartright—a woman who seemed slightly older than Lady Dalmeer, with silver hair and high cheekbones, as well as Lady Dalmeer’s nephew, the Viscount Weymouth, and his wife.

Leah spent most of the meal conversing with Mr. Woodward, who proved to be a better conversationalist than she would have expected. Once the color in his cheeks had reduced, he stuttered much less and seemed far more comfortable.

He ate more than anyone she had ever met.

She lost count of how many slices of French bread he managed to eat before dessert was brought out. He spoke of his estate in East Sussex and its abundance of sheep, his love of reading about agriculture and astronomy, and his brother’s recent tooth extraction.

Leah should not have laughed, but Mr. Woodward’s amusement gave her leave to do so.

“He didn’t speak for a week.” Mr. Woodward leaned close, a slice of bread in one hand. His shoulders quaked with laughter. “When he finally did speak again, all he could do was utter prayers that he should never have to repeat the experience.”

Leah covered her mouth with one hand. “Your poor brother.”

He shrugged. “One might say it was deserved. He did beat me at piquet the day before.”

Leah’s laugher escaped in a loud burst, which drew Mr. Hawthorne’s gaze.

Good.

He could see that she was having an entertaining time while he was trapped beside Lady Cartright, who had been casting him flirtatious smiles despite her age. He looked vastly uncomfortable, his back stiff against his chair.