“I do love butter,” she purred. “Especially when it’s poured over me by a man who has so little use for me.”
He froze, staring at her across the table as a wild fantasy of literally pouring butter on her naked skin and licking it off flashed through his mind.
Good God, what was wrong with him?
Something of what he was thinking must have shown on his face, for her amusement vanished and her eyes went wide. “Why are you looking at me like that all of a sudden?” she whispered.
He stiffened, forcing his countenance into the blandest expression he could muster. “How was I looking?”
“I don’t know. As if…” She paused, her tongue darting out to lick her lips. “As if I’m Little Red Riding Hood and you’re the big bad wolf.”
That analogy was so apt, he had to take a hefty swallow of wine before he could reply. “You’re wrong in my assessment of you, by the way,” he said, desperate to divert the subject. “I confess I sometimes find you exasperating, aggravating, and too devilishly clever for my peace of mind, but—”
Her groan interrupted him. “First you butter me up, then you slam me down. I’m getting dizzy.”
“Nonetheless, despite how it might seem, I do value your opinion. I wouldn’t have asked for it if I didn’t.”
“Very well, then.” She ate a few more bites of her food, then set down her knife and fork, picked up her glass, and leaned back in her chair. “Can you tell me specifically what the problem is?” she asked as the footman took her plate. “Who has snubbed your sister, and when, and under what circumstances?”
“I’m not sure of the details, but from what she’s written, the countygirls her age are quite unfriendly toward her. She’s such a sweet girl who’s never had a problem making friends, and she’s taking it hard.”
“You think their standoffishness is due to snobbery?”
“What other reason could there be?”
“Well, we British are rather standoffish by nature, aren’t we? And it’s always hard on girls when they leave school and have to make new friends all over again. When you bring her out—”
“Bring her out?” He stopped eating and set down his knife and fork with a clatter, staring at her in dismay.
“Of course. She’ll be doing the season, she’ll be presented at court—” She broke off as he shook his head. “Simon, you’re a viscount. Your sister will have to be presented. I’m happy to put her name in for consideration. I’d have to meet her first, of course, but once that’s done, I can easily write to the Lord Chamberlain and make the request. The Queen can hardly refuse, since she’s the one who bestowed a title on you in the first place.”
“Coming out, being presented… is all that really necessary?”
“Of course! A girl of her position must make her coming-out, do the season, and be presented if she expects to do well in society and make a good marriage.”
“Marriage?” His dismay deepened. “She’s far too young to be thinking about marriage!”
“But she’s not. She’s seventeen.”
“Exactly. She’s a child.”
“No, she’s a young lady. Most young ladies are brought out at that age. And many marry after their first season. I did.”
“Did you?” he asked, momentarily diverted as he recalled his own surprise at his first glimpse of her. “So that explains it, at least partly.”
“Explains what?”
“When we first met, I was shocked at how young you are. I had thought a three-time widow would be older.”
“And here I was thinking Helen had been whispering in your ear about how dreadful I am.”
He didn’t miss her inquiring look across the table, but he refused to be drawn. “I form my own opinions about people’s character, I assure you. But I confess, I did have a certain image of you in my head that was partly due to what she told me.”
“What sort of image?”
“Gray haired, stout, wearing too many cosmetics, and flamboyantly middle-aged.”
She laughed merrily, not seeming the least bit insulted. “Well, I like that! Stout and middle-aged, indeed.”
