“And?”
She lifted her free hand, a sweeping gesture that encompassed far more than just the room around them. “How could you—or my father, for that matter—possibly think this world, where clothes are more important than kindness, and alliance is valued more highly than love, is a world I would ever want to live in?”
He had no idea how to respond to that question, for women like her, women for whom his world held no appeal, were as rare as hens’ teeth. He’d certainly never met one before. Thankfully, however, Boothby’s deep voice intervened before he was forced to craft a reply.
“Your Graces, ladies and gentlemen,” the butler announced from the doorway with all his customary grandeur, “dinner is served.”
Chapter 8
The Duke of Torquil may have surprised Irene with his very modern baths, but she soon discovered that when it came to his dining room, he made no concessions whatsoever to modernity, and the result was beyond surprising. It was stunning.
Old silver gleamed and crystal glittered on a table of pristine white linen, elegant footmen in livery waited to serve, and dozens of candles had been placed in the epergnes on the table and the chandeliers overhead, lighting the room with a soft, ethereal glow.
She’d dined in wealthy surroundings before, of course. When she’d first reached an age to put up her hair and dine with her parents, her grandfather’s newspaper empire had enabled them to enjoy a certain number of luxuries, including an excellent chef and a well-set table. And yet, even in her family’s most prosperous days, their dining room had never possessed quite the elegant ambience she felt here. The gleaming Tass silver and sparkling Irish crystal on the table, the Reynolds and Gainsborough paintings on the walls, the thick but faded Axminster carpet beneath her feet—items every bit as rare and expensive and elegant as these could have been bought by any new money millionaire, and yet, somehow, the room would not have looked like this. The difference was undefinable, yet unmistakable. Anyone walking into this room knew at once that these treasures had been handed down for many generations, not purchased at an auction.
As Irene took her place beside her host at the long oval dining table, she found in front of her an array of plates, glasses, and utensils far more elaborate than anything her family would ever have set out.
She pulled off her gloves and placed them in her lap, then reached for her napkin, glancing across the table to see how her sister was faring in the face of this bewildering display of cut glass and cutlery.
Seated between Lord David and the duchess, Clara had already removed her gloves and was now staring back at Irene with pleading eyes, clearly looking for guidance. Remembering the words of her governess from long ago about starting from the outside in, Irene tapped her index finger discreetly against the outermost utensil to the right of her plate, a tiny, delicate spoon made of mother-of-pearl, the purpose of which she could not begin to imagine.
It was, she soon discovered, a caviar spoon. Several other equally unfamiliar utensils lay beside it; however, by careful observance of the duke and Lady Angela, as well as a minimal amount of conversation, Irene was able to manage not only the caviar spoon, but also the escargot fork and tongs and the pâté knife. Nonetheless, when the hors d’oeuvres had given way to the soup, she couldn’t help feeling relieved. Clara, she had no doubt, felt the same.
Once the soup had been served, Irene felt comfortable enough with the accoutrements of her meal that she could devote her attention to the conversation going on around her and be able to converse beyond the monosyllables she’d uttered during the first course.
“What shall we do tomorrow?” Lady Sarah was asking. “We’ve no fixed engagements, so where shall we take our guests? Shopping?”
“I believe you have several engagements already, Sarah,” said the duchess. “Carlotta had your schedule completely full for the entire week, as I recall.”
“We cancelled everything this week. We didn’t know if—” Lady Sarah broke off, casting an uneasy glance at Lady David. “We thought—that is, we told everyone you were ill. We feared, you see . . .” Her voice trailed off, her floundering explanations fading into an uncomfortable silence.
Torquil broke it at once. “In light of recent events, I believe the young ladies thought it best to remain close to home.”
“Oh, my dears,” the duchess said, glancing from one of her daughters to the other, then to her daughter-in-law, “there was no need for any of you to cancel your plans.”
“Probably not,” Torquil said, and though that murmur of agreement was bland, it reclaimed his mother’s attention at once. “But I don’t think any of us knew quite what to do, Mama. We’ve all been rather at sixes and sevens this week.”
Behind that comment, there was an unmistakable hint of reproof. The duchess glanced away, looking a bit conscience-stricken, and Irene stirred, uncomfortable on her behalf.
“The point is,” Lady Angela said, jumping in as another awkward silence threatened, “we’ve a whole day free, nothing planned, and guests to entertain. So what shall we do?”
“What about an excursion outside the city?” Lord David suggested. “We could take a picnic, make a day of it.”
Her hosts, she realized, were unaware of her schedule, and she knew she could not allow them to continue making plans for her in which she could not participate, but Lord James spoke before she had the chance.
“I’ve an idea. The Mary Louisa is docked at Queen’s Wharf. If tomorrow is a fine day, we could take her out, sail down to Kew, and have our picnic there.”
“But shouldn’t we be taking the Miss Deverills about here in town?” Sarah asked. “How can we introduce them to our acquaintances if we are on the yacht all day?”
“You have a yacht?” Diverted, Irene turned to her host, and was at once reminded by his impeccably fitted dinner jacket and perfectly formed white tie that her question was a bit absurd. “What am I saying?” she muttered. “Of course you have a yacht.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t know that already, Miss Deverill,” Carlotta said before her brother-in-law could reply. “After all, Society Snippets seems to have found our family and friends quite fascinating during the past year. I’m amazed that tidbit escaped your notice.”
Irene was tempted to say that if Lady David continued to be so damnably irritating, the paper just might start to find her the most fascinating person in all of society, but for Clara’s sake, she refrained, and Torquil spoke before she could think of a more tactful reply.
“I’m sure Miss Deverill is fully aware of what is printed in her own paper, Carlotta,” he said, a defense of her so unexpected that Irene couldn’t help staring at him in astonishment. “And most of the London papers find us a topic for news. It’s part of our life to be talked about. I would think you’d be resigned to that by now.”
“Of course,” Carlotta murmured, returning her attention to her consommé.
