are ready to dine?”
“Please do.” He offered his arm to Kit’s governess. “Shall we go through, Miss Shaw?”
She might have preferred to read her letters immediately, but the lady had to eat sometime. The pair of them dining together would make less work for the kitchen staff. Yet it was not those practical considerations that made his spirits soar when Leah Shaw smiled at him and took his arm.
As they made their way to the table he said, “This will give us an opportunity to discuss my son’s studies without him overhearing.”
“An excellent suggestion, Your Grace!” In her eagerness, Miss Shaw gave his arm a little squeeze.
The sensation seemed to travel up his arm and communicate itself to his heart, which began to beat faster and warmer than it had in a great while.
Chapter Six
N ot many weeks ago, at her friend Hannah’s wedding breakfast, Leah had dined in the company of a baron, a viscount and an earl without the slightest awkwardness. Why did this unexpected invitation to share a meal with the Duke of Northam discompose her so?
When they reached the table, she found herself strangely reluctant to let go of His Grace’s arm. And when he held her chair, as if she were a titled lady, her knees grew weak. Rather than sinking onto her seat with elegant grace befitting her surroundings, she dropped like a sack of potatoes.
Might it be because he looked so splendid compared to her—every inch the nobleman? Of course, that must be the reason.
Yet knowing the cause of her strange agitation did not keep Leah’s tongue from turning stubbornly mute as she faced Lord Northam across the comparatively narrow width of the long dining table. She hoped he did not expect her to entertain him with amusing conversation. At the moment, she could not think of a word to say, except perhaps to remark on his handsome appearance. Even her lenient sense of discretion warned her that would not be appropriate.
His Grace seemed rather ill at ease, as well, which only made matters worse. Did he regret his impulsive invitation? Had he hoped she would accept one of his offers to reconsider her decision?
As self-conscious silence stretched between them, Leah silently pleaded for the food to arrive, so they would have something to talk about, however commonplace.
As if to fulfill her wish, Mr. Gibson appeared just then, bearing two bowls. With excessive care, he placed one before Leah. Fine wisps of steam rose from the soup, bearing a savory aroma that made her mouth water.
After Mr. Gibson served Lord Northam, the duke picked up his spoon and cleared his throat. Leah awaited some conventional remark that might thaw the stilted atmosphere between them. “Tell me about these friends of yours, Miss Shaw. How many are there? Do you write to one another often?”
His question took her by surprise and loosened her tongue. “There are six of us who have remained especially close over the years. How often we write depends upon how busy we are and whether we have much news to report. In the past, we sometimes wrote serial letters, each adding to the others before sending it on. It saved us time, paper and postage.”
Could a man in his position understand the necessity to economize on such trifles? If he thought such a thing, the duke gave no indication of it.
“But you no longer write that way?” He cast his gaze over the small pile of letters on the table beside Leah’s place. “Why?”
“There is not the need for economy that there once was.” Leah paused to take a sip of her soup, a toothsome blend of shredded vegetables in a thick stock. “Several of my friends have married well. One is now the wife of a sea captain retired from the Royal Navy. Three others are wed to peers. Lady Steadwell lives in Berkshire and Lady Benedict in the Cotswolds. Before coming to Renforth Abbey, I attended the wedding of my friend Hannah Fletcher to the Earl of Hawkehurst.”
“Indeed?” The duke seemed surprised by this
“Please do.” He offered his arm to Kit’s governess. “Shall we go through, Miss Shaw?”
She might have preferred to read her letters immediately, but the lady had to eat sometime. The pair of them dining together would make less work for the kitchen staff. Yet it was not those practical considerations that made his spirits soar when Leah Shaw smiled at him and took his arm.
As they made their way to the table he said, “This will give us an opportunity to discuss my son’s studies without him overhearing.”
“An excellent suggestion, Your Grace!” In her eagerness, Miss Shaw gave his arm a little squeeze.
The sensation seemed to travel up his arm and communicate itself to his heart, which began to beat faster and warmer than it had in a great while.
Chapter Six
N ot many weeks ago, at her friend Hannah’s wedding breakfast, Leah had dined in the company of a baron, a viscount and an earl without the slightest awkwardness. Why did this unexpected invitation to share a meal with the Duke of Northam discompose her so?
When they reached the table, she found herself strangely reluctant to let go of His Grace’s arm. And when he held her chair, as if she were a titled lady, her knees grew weak. Rather than sinking onto her seat with elegant grace befitting her surroundings, she dropped like a sack of potatoes.
Might it be because he looked so splendid compared to her—every inch the nobleman? Of course, that must be the reason.
Yet knowing the cause of her strange agitation did not keep Leah’s tongue from turning stubbornly mute as she faced Lord Northam across the comparatively narrow width of the long dining table. She hoped he did not expect her to entertain him with amusing conversation. At the moment, she could not think of a word to say, except perhaps to remark on his handsome appearance. Even her lenient sense of discretion warned her that would not be appropriate.
His Grace seemed rather ill at ease, as well, which only made matters worse. Did he regret his impulsive invitation? Had he hoped she would accept one of his offers to reconsider her decision?
As self-conscious silence stretched between them, Leah silently pleaded for the food to arrive, so they would have something to talk about, however commonplace.
As if to fulfill her wish, Mr. Gibson appeared just then, bearing two bowls. With excessive care, he placed one before Leah. Fine wisps of steam rose from the soup, bearing a savory aroma that made her mouth water.
After Mr. Gibson served Lord Northam, the duke picked up his spoon and cleared his throat. Leah awaited some conventional remark that might thaw the stilted atmosphere between them. “Tell me about these friends of yours, Miss Shaw. How many are there? Do you write to one another often?”
His question took her by surprise and loosened her tongue. “There are six of us who have remained especially close over the years. How often we write depends upon how busy we are and whether we have much news to report. In the past, we sometimes wrote serial letters, each adding to the others before sending it on. It saved us time, paper and postage.”
Could a man in his position understand the necessity to economize on such trifles? If he thought such a thing, the duke gave no indication of it.
“But you no longer write that way?” He cast his gaze over the small pile of letters on the table beside Leah’s place. “Why?”
“There is not the need for economy that there once was.” Leah paused to take a sip of her soup, a toothsome blend of shredded vegetables in a thick stock. “Several of my friends have married well. One is now the wife of a sea captain retired from the Royal Navy. Three others are wed to peers. Lady Steadwell lives in Berkshire and Lady Benedict in the Cotswolds. Before coming to Renforth Abbey, I attended the wedding of my friend Hannah Fletcher to the Earl of Hawkehurst.”
“Indeed?” The duke seemed surprised by this
Similar Books
