In Your Arms Again by Kathryn Smith Page B

was small compared to those in houses similar to Octavia’s. The silverware was simple, the china plain, the crystal elegant, and the food delicious without being pretentious. Her mother had taught her to appreciate simple things, things that didn’t go out of fashion as soon as one had paid for them. It was a practice that infuriated her grandfather, but one of the few things about herself she refused to change for him. Somehow he had managed to love her despite her many faults.
    “May I ask what is so amusing?”
    Octavia whipped her gaze around to Spinton’s. “I beg your pardon?”
    He smiled patiently. “You chuckled just now.”
    She glanced away as her lips tilted upward. “I was thinking of my grandfather.”
    “Ahh. Of course you would chuckle. He was such a jovial man.”
    Spinton’s pleasantly caustic tone widened Octavia’s grin. There were times when she enjoyed his company and liked him very much indeed. He was a good man, and sometimes—like right now—he made her smile. Perhaps they could make a good marriage together. Yes, he was very amiable indeed.
    When he wasn’t interfering in her life, of course. He clucked over her like he was her father rather than the man who wished to be her husband.
    He held out her chair at the head of the table and took his customary seat at the other end. North and Beatrice were seated in the middle on either side. On a longer table it would have been ridiculous to seat a small party in such a manner, but around Octavia’s modest setting, voices would be able to speak in moderate tones and everyone would have plenty of room.
    Conversation was polite, concerning mostly the weather, as the meal began. Then, while slicing into the pink, juicy beef on her plate, Octavia decided to take the charade to its next, and expected, level.
    “I am surprised that we have never met before this, Mr. Sheffield.”
    It was a good thing Spinton wasn’t looking at Beatrice, or her cousin would have given away that Octavia was lying through her teeth. North, on the other hand, had the exact countenance one would expect from a stranger.
    “I am not one for society, Lady Octavia.”
    “Oh?” she asked, lifting her wineglass. “Why is that?”
    The briefest flicker of annoyance lit in his eyes before his mask slipped back into place. Was it not a question that someone who was in society might ask? Was it not something she herself had often wondered? She remembered a time when North very much wanted to be a member of the ton ; now he seemed to avoid it as much as possible. Was it because of her?
    “The Upper Ten Thousand does not look kindly on bastards.”
    “Mr. Sheffield!” Spinton looked as though he might suffer an apoplexy. “I realize you are not accustomed to being in society, but to use such language in front of ladies—”
    North looked first at Beatrice and then at Octavia. His features were emotionless, his gaze unrepentant, but there wasdefiance in his tone. “Do you take offense to what I am, Lady Octavia?”
    Offense? That he had made so much of himself was a marvel. Growing up in the area that they had, each of them had known numerous people born on the wrong side of the blanket. Few of them had gone on to make as much of themselves as North had—and to be so sought out by the very world that rejected him…
    “No, Mr. Sheffield. I am not offended. Beatrice, dear?”
    Her cousin flushed under the weight of their stares. She seemed torn between Spinton and Octavia. Poor thing. She really had no idea whom to give her loyalty to.
    “While your choice of word may have been inappropriate Mr. Sheffield, I cannot say any offense I feel extends to your person.”
    Nicely put. Why couldn’t Octavia have thought of something similar? A true lady would find North’s choice of title objectionable. A true lady would be shocked.
    One more reminder that she was not, nor would she ever be, a lady.
    “My apologies, Mr. Sheffield,” she murmured under Spinton’s