What if he was not there? What if he did not think she was dressed appropriately? What if they had nothing to say to one another? What if he spent the dinner telling her about her shortcomings, which he had apparently heard from someone? She assumed it was Mrs. Scanlon who had informed Lionel of her new dining habits, but she did not blame the housekeeper; the older woman was just doing her job, keeping the Earl informed of the household’s goings-on.
Making shaky progress down the stairs, she crossed the entrance hall and went a small distance down the hallway to get to the dining room. There, she halted outside, perfectly still and holding her breath, listening out for any sound within.
“If you linger out there, you will be late,” Lionel’s voice called from inside. “Unless you would prefer me to pass your dinner under the door? The fish and the meats might fit, but I am dubious about the vegetables.”
She clamped her hand over her mouth to smother the sudden snort that came out of her, imagining the mess if he tried to slide her plate under the door.
Gathering herself, she entered… and stopped sharply at the sight of her husband. He was bathed in amber candlelight at the farthest end of the dining room, where he leaned casually against the drinks table with a glass of wine in his hand, and another sitting on a silver tray.
He looked… breathtaking, a world away from the disheveled man she had intruded upon a few hours earlier. Although, there had been an odd charm to him, too.
His hair was clean and combed, the stubble shaved from his face, his complexion less gray, his attire elegant and expertly tailored, highlighting his athletic physique. But, to her dismay, he was not wearing his spectacles, which she had recently found so very endearing. They softened his appearance somehow and, without them, he had become marginally more intimidating again.
“I certainly could have handed you the wine through the door, though Mrs. Scanlon would not have been particularly pleased by it,” he said, picking up the second glass and walking toward her.
Amelia could not move or breathe as she watched his approach: the height of him, the broadness of his shoulders, the confidence of his strides, the gleam in his eyes, and the ghost of a smile upon his lips. Not to mention the memory of his bare chestjustvisible through the brazenly unbuttoned collar of his shirt, when she had walked in on him in his study. His collar was buttoned now, but her imagination remembered.
“Drink this,” he said, handing her the glass. “It will make dinner much easier for us both.”
She eyed the red liquid. “Should I be worried?”
“Not unless you drink too much.” He took the glass back and sipped it in a rather generous show of reassurance. “It is just wine, Amelia. Very good wine, but nothing nefarious.”
He passed the glass back, though she did not immediately bring it to her lips. Staring at the rim, she could not recall which side he had sipped from. What if her lips pressed against the same place as his? Why, it would be tantamount to a kiss.
“Please, sit,” he instructed, moving to the nearest chair.
Two places had been set, with a candelabra between, the flames flickering softly. He pulled back the chair and gestured, and though she had been content with not obeying anyone’s commands, she obeyed his.
With her seated, he walked around to the opposite side and sat down, whipping out the napkin and laying it on his lap. That done, he gazed at her for a moment.
Figuring that he wanted her to do the same, Amelia draped her own napkin across her lap… but he continued to gaze at her, until her traitorous cheeks began to burn hotter than the candleflame.
“Do I have something on my face?” she asked quietly.
He blinked as if he had not realized he was staring. “Hmm? No, nothing like that.”
He did not elaborate, and she did not ask him to, for the servants took that moment to enter with the first course of the evening: a shallow bowl of watercress soup.
As soon as the bowls were placed, the staff made themselves scarce again, disappearing through the servants’ doorways, vanishing from sight. How they had known when to begin serving was a mystery to Amelia, for Lionel had given no signal that she could see.
“Do you like watercress soup?” Lionel asked, scooping up a spoonful.
Amelia hesitated. “I do.”
“Your face says otherwise.”
She blushed furiously. “It is neither my favorite nor my least favorite soup.”
“Let the cook know your preferences,” he said flatly, as silence prevailed once more, peppered only by the faint clink of spoons against bowls.
It was little better than if shehadbeen dining alone, but Amelia was not prepared to endure however many courses in stilted quiet. She had managed to get him to come to dinner with her, she could at least attempt to make it a not unpleasant occasion.
“I read that watercress is very good for one’s eyes,” she said, swallowing a mouthful of the upsettingly green soup.
“Do you think that if I eat enough, I will not have to wear spectacles anymore?” he replied drily.
“That is not what I meant,” she mumbled, her throat tight. “Have you… um… always worn spectacles?”
