Silver Splendor by Olivia Drake Page A

look at Elizabeth. “He’s an American painter, isn’t he?”
    “By birth, yes,” Elizabeth said lightly, “but he’s lived in England for so many years he might well consider himself more your countryman.”
    Venom hardened Marianne’s face. Before she could reply, Peebles announced dinner. The cadaverous butler led the way into a sumptuous dining room where a pair of liveried footmen waited to serve the meal. Delicious aromas emanated from the silver serving platters on the mahogany sideboards.
    Elizabeth found herself seated between Lady Melton and Cicely. Across the snowy damask tablecloth, Marianne lost no time engaging Lord Nicholas in low pitched dialogue. Lady Beatrice adroitly took charge of the conversation at the other end of the table. Elizabeth soon grew bored with the exchange of social chit chat and the discussion of Queen Victoria’s upcoming visit to Balmoral Castle.
    She concentrated on her meal, reveling in the asparagus soup, the poached salmon, the veal in cream sauce. Never in her life had she eaten such exquisite food. Lady Beatrice kept a watchful eye out, as if expecting Elizabeth to disgrace the family. Couldn’t the woman at least give her guest credit for having the common sense to observe which fork or spoon to use? Irked, Elizabeth felt tempted to line the tiny French peas along her knife blade and eat like a true barbarian.
    Her annoyance disintegrated as she stole a sidelong look at Lord Nicholas. Though still angered by his falsification of her past, her admiration for his looks remained undimmed. The light from the ornate silver candelabra set his cheekbones into sharp relief. Generations of privilege and wealth had given him the confidence no amount of tutoring could supply. He fed her starving senses in a way mere food could never satisfy. Her fingers ached to test the texture of his chestnut hair, to examine the whorls of his ears, to undo that formal white necktie and investigate the sinews and muscles beneath.
    The chirp of Marianne’s laughter distracted Elizabeth; unexpected resentment stabbed her. Whatever did Lord Nicholas see in that silly girl? With the attention he paid her, one would assume she possessed a fine intellect and a charming character. Of course, Elizabeth told herself waspishly, maybe the earl didn’t care if a woman were small minded so long as she was willing to yield to his physical needs.
    Heat chased over her skin as she imagined him naked. Her corset seemed to squeeze tighter, forcing the breath from her lungs. Hastily she looked down at her plate as a footman whisked away the remains of dinner and then served dessert. Beset by a fierce longing to escape this stilted setting, she trifled with the gooseberry pudding, stirring the fluffy substance until it turned into a pale puddle.
    Once the interminable meal ended, she retired with the ladies to the drawing room. She was bored silly by the chitchat and about to plead a headache by the time Lord Melton and the earl rejoined the women. Relieved, Elizabeth decided she’d experienced enough of polite society to last a lifetime.
    But Lord Melton sank to the sofa beside his wife. “Play something for us, my dearest Marianne,” he said.
    “You do that Chopin piece quite well. Quite well, indeed.”
    “I wouldn’t dream of boring all of you,” his daughter demurred.
    “You could never bore us,” Lord Nicholas said, smiling indulgently from his stance by the mantel.
    “Well, if you insist.” Clearly pleased by his encouragement, Marianne sat at the mahogany pianoforte.
    As the girl began to play a sonata, Elizabeth forced herself to sit still. She resisted yawning by exercising her willpower. Everyone else seemed to listen with well bred interest… even Cicely. Then the girl caught Elizabeth’s glance and winked, and Elizabeth had to swallow a giggle.
    She wondered if the earl, too, hid his boredom. He was such an expert at deception that even with her skills of observation she could not detect