Altogether and entirely…too perfect.
Not a skip of her heart greeted his appearance, but Petra smiled brightly at him all the same. Hewasterribly handsome. Simon had none of Morwick’s rough, wild beauty, but he was still a very attractive man. The first time they’d danced together at Lady Upton’s ball, Petra had floated on a cloud of happiness and barely remembered if they spoke.
“I am the luckiest man alive.” Simon bowed. “I’m to sup surrounded by the loveliest ladies in all of England.”
“Ever the charmer.” Lady Pendleton offered a genuine smile to her son. It was clear she adored him.
With an incline of his head, Simon took his mother’s arm then took Petra’s and tucked her fingers into his elbow. “You look lovely tonight,” he said, taking in the pale yellow of her gown, the modest neckline and simply styled hair. “Perfect, in fact.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Perfection, she was rapidly beginning to understand, was overrated. Mother had chosen the gown with its incredibly modest neckline. And though her breasts were small, Petra had a sudden notion that they should beseen. Simon had barely glanced in the direction of her bodice. She cast a sideways look at Simon wondering why he’d never noticed her breasts. Or ogled them.
Morwick had done both.
As Simon led her forward, Katherine and Mother conversed quietly, falling in line behind them. It was all perfectly pleasant. Ordered. Polite.Boring.
Dinner, something overcooked and not to Petra’s liking, passed in exactly the same tedious, intolerable manner.
Everyone at the dinner table took Petra’s engagement to Simon for granted, including Mother. No one seemed concerned with whether Petra had accepted him or not. Petra’s two Seasons were dissected in excruciating detail, down to her dancing partners at various functions. Lady Pendleton seemed determined to ensure Petra had done nothing remotely scandalous or inflammatory to eventually infect her brilliant son.
Mother, in her effort to reassure Lady Pendleton of Petra’s innocence, recounted every bit of the last two years, discussing Petra as if she weren’t even at the table.
Petra had never been so horrified.
Katherine listened to the conversation swirling about the table with mild interest, interjecting a comment or two only when necessary. Her dark eyes glanced every so often at Petra with something akin to pity.
Petra ate sparingly, almost wishing her stomach ailment would return so she could excuse herself from the table, but she wasn’t that lucky. Her resentment grew, along with her hatred of the mashed turnips on her plate.
“Tell me, my lord,” she spoke up, startling the entire table into silence with her words. “What has occupied you since our arrival?”
His nostrils flared slightly at her questioning of his whereabouts. “This and that,” Simon answered, his nod to her indulgent, as if she were a small child asking after the existence of fairies. “I’ve an important bill I must finish to present to Parliament. I don’t wish to bore you with the details.” He smiled at the table. “I’m sure you ladies would prefer to discuss other things far more interesting.”
“But, Iaminterested, my lord,” Petra challenged. “I should like to know more. You must have been quite busy while I was ill at Somerton.” She deliberately left the unvoiced question lingering in the air.
Simon took her meaning as evidenced by the slight reddening of his puffed cheeks. “It’s fairly complicated and the subject is not fit discussion with such charming company.”
“Hear, hear.” Lady Pendleton agreed with her son. “The theater is what I miss most about not being in London. I was privileged to see the great Edmund Kean in MacBeth years ago.”
“Magnificent,” Mother agreed. “I, too, was privileged to see him on stage.”
Petra gritted her teeth as Lady Pendleton deftly steered the discussion into theater, Covent Garden, Edmund Kean and his son. What Simon meant in his pretty speech was the women present couldn’tpossiblyunderstand the principles of hisimportantwork or his bloody bill. She turned to Simon. “I am fairly up to date on many of the issues facing the reform of —”
“Later, perhaps.” Simon stabbed his roast, pulling the chunk of meat from his fork with relish.
“Petra,” Mother announced from her place at the table as their plates were taken up and fruit and cheese was brought out. “We should relate to Lady Pendleton your experience visiting Gray Covington.” At Lady Pendleton’s exclamation of delight, Mother continued, “We are friends of Lord Cambourne, you see. I cannot begin to tell you of the gardens. The Dowager Marchioness planned them out herself. Simply divine, though there are no more midnight roses in any of the beds.”
“Oh, for shame,” Lady Pendleton remarked. “Midnight roses were once the most sought after blooms in all of England. What happened to destroy such a treasure?”
“Aphids.” Mother lowered her voice. “I’m told Lady Cambourne was most distraught at the infestation. Expert gardeners were brought in, but to no avail. The bushes all had to be destroyed lest the entire garden be ruined. Even without the roses, the stories told of the sweeping gardens do not do Gray Covington justice. Am I right, Petra?”
Petra nodded dully, shaking her head at a footman’s offer of berries. After her mother’s recitation of the magnificence of Gray Covington, Petra’s dinner companions took it upon themselves to plan out her future with Simon. Each time Petra tried to say something, Mother answered for her until eventually, Petra ceased trying. No one seemed to care that Petra hadn’t yet saidyesto Simon’s offer,especiallySimon. He directed none of his conversation at her, probably in a fit of pique for her earlier insinuation he’d been too busy to check on her when she’d been ill.
As the dinner dragged on, the conversation continued about her. Petra, still like the perfectly demure lady she no longer was, with her hands clasped in her lap, came to a startling conclusion about the evening. Any of the other young ladies of Petra’s circle could be sitting in this same chair, dressed in a similar dress and no one,especiallynot Simon, would note the difference.
I am virtually interchangeable with half of the girls in London.
The irony, thought Petra, was though Morwick had called her a pea-wit, he’d never actually treated her as if she were a mindless ninny. Simon, for all his posturing and respectful treatment of her, assumed Petra’s intelligence to be that of the mashed turnips served for dinner. She didn’t blame Simon, necessarily. Petra had been so in awe of Simon and so careful to do as Mother had instructed, she had difficulty recalling if she and Simon had ever been alone together let alone engaged in an honest conversation.
Pleading exhaustion after dinner, much to the dismay of her mother, Petra retired to her rooms. Her reservations about marrying Simon had multiplied tenfold during dinner. She’d been right to insist on a visit to Brushbriar, and asking her father to delay signing a betrothal agreement. How could she marry a man who wouldn’t even discuss his interests with her? She thought many women probably did, but until lately Petra hadn’t realized how such a thing would matter. Simon must cease treating her as if she were a child.
