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Slashing his brows together into a sod-off-and-go-bugger-yourself glare, Fletcher stabbed at a butter and herb covered carrot. And missed. One fat baby carrot rolled away while another skidded onto the edge of the plate, balanced for a blink, and then silently plopped onto the tablecloth.

His fork made a loud, grating noise as it scraped across the gold-rimmed, pale moss-green china. The sound echoed loudly, and several guests turned curious gazes in his direction.

Heat billowed from Fletcher’s waist to his hairline. With a low growl, he finally speared another runaway vegetable and stuffed it into his mouth whole. Honestly, he didn’t even like carrots all that much, and he most especially didn’t like the vegetable when it made him a fool.

Silent and stealthily as a ghost, a footman collected the runaway carrot. Nevertheless, an oily, herb-speckled stain marred the tablecloth.

Dammit.

Sheffield’s shoulders shook with ill-concealed mirth, and his duchess, always the consummate hostess, opened and closed her mouth twice. As if she thought she should inquire after Fletcher but eschewed doing so as not to draw unwanted attention to him.

In the end, she offered an encouraging upward sweep of her mouth and speared her own carrot with superb ease. Without so much as the tiniest sound or sending a single tiny orange missile across the table, she cut a dainty bite-sized piece.

Egads, he felt as if he’d just been given a silent lesson in dining etiquette.

Hot humiliation stung Fletcher’s cheeks, and another guttural noise echoed in his throat as he chewed. Bloody damn. He sounded like a primitive barbarian.

Hell, he felt like a primitive barbarian.

A barbarian who wanted to say to hell with reason and sensibleness, shove back his chair, sweep Rayne into his arms, and bundle her off to someplace secluded and private to explore whatever this burgeoning thing was between them.

Was it between them, or did he imagine her interest?

That galling thought settled like a glob of rancid bacon fat in his belly, and his fork hung limply in his hand as he reviewed their few interactions in his mind.

No, there had been a spark of interest in the magnificent depths of her coppery eyes. He hadn’t imagined it.

“Your Grace?” Her pale blue eyes brimming with kindness and concern, Jemmah, the lovely, strawberry-blonde Duchess of Dandridge, seated on his left asked, “Is something amiss?”

She pointed her gaze at his fork, hovering an inch above his plate.

“Nae. I simply slipped earlier.”

What inane drivel.

A man who wielded a sword and a dirk with the skill Fletcher possessed did not slip with his fork. Until now, that was. Never had a woman distracted him as Rayne did.

Asherford coughed behind his serviette, and Sutcliffe and Sheffield, their mouths twitching, exchanged hilarity-filled glances before attending to the delicious meal once more.

Bloody idiots.

Fletcher attempted to remind himself precisely why they were friends, but at the moment, he couldn’t summon a solitary reason why he’d been so buffleheaded as to befriend British dukes.

Puzzled frowns marred the usually smooth foreheads of several of the ladies as if they sensed the peculiar undercurrent but couldn’t quite put their manicured fingers on what went on. However, they were astute women. If Fletcher wasn’t more vigilant, he’d give himself away entirely.

Given the merriment and perceptive looks the married men at the table shared, he might’ve done so already.

Bloody, bloody hell.

At this rate, the entire assemblage would be onto Fletcher’s inconvenient infatuation. And that presented a prickly situation he didn’t want to explain. Nor did he wish Sheffield to approach him with questions he had no answers to. Well, not satisfactory answers that wouldn’t have Sheffield calling him out for a cad and a bounder.

Therefore, for the remainder of the meal, Fletcher resolutely determined to keep his regard focused on his food, the Duchess of Dandridge on his left, and Ophelia Breckensole to his right.

He would not look across the table again.

Not even once.

What about after dinner when the gentleman had finished with their cigars and brandy? When everyone came together in the drawing room, and there was not a table as a buffer between him and Rayne?