“Oh, neither.” The dance separated them then, and when the steps reunited them, his brow rose in a silent prompt.
“You’d be the emperor, above it all, looking down your long nose at the struggles of the mere mortals, untouched. Uncaring. Indifferent.”
His eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.
They danced on. A dance had never felt so endless.
Finally it was suppertime. But George found there was no way for her to wriggle out of supper with the duke. She tried, asking to be excused because she had a headache and needed to lie down.
To which he replied callously, “Nonsense. You’ll feel better with some food in you. And if the headache persists, we’ll find you a nice humid conservatory to cool off in.” Proving he had no belief in her purported—and imaginary—headache.
He escorted her into the supper room and, to her surprise, steered her away from the top table, toward a table that was already filling. Aunt Agatha and her tame escort hesitated, then made for the top table where Emm and Cal and Rose and Thomas were already sitting.
The duke seated her and took the chair beside her. There was a mild scuffle as two ladies dived to get the seat on the other side of him, much to the discomposure of their partners. The duke appeared not to notice any of them; his attention was all on George.
As George removed her gloves and tucked them into her reticule, Aunt Agatha leaned forward and, from across the room, eyed George in a minatory be-nice-to-the-duke fashion. George bared her teeth in not quite a smile.
The duke proved to be a solicitous supper partner and presented George with a variety of dishes, all very much to her taste. She accepted a portion from every one. She really was very hungry, and the spread was magnificent. The memory of hunger, going several days without food, was not all that far in her past, and it simply wasn’t in her to refuse food when it was offered.
Nor could she waste good food by toying with it in a ladylike manner and leaving most of it on her plate. She allowed her plate to be filled and ate the lot. She ignored the sideways looks from the ladies close by. What she did was none of their business.
The lady beside the duke kept trying to engage him in conversation. As far as George was concerned she was welcome to him, but the duke merely responded to the woman’s gushing efforts with bored-sounding monosyllables, then returned his attention to George. It was very annoying. He ought to have better manners.
What was he playing at? If his purpose in coming here tonight was to indicate to the ton that there were no hard feelings between him and the Rutherford family—Rose in particular—he could have left after his dance with Rose.
This very particular attention to George—so uncharacteristic and public—was drawing unwelcome attention from some of the ladies. Speculative attention. Unfriendly speculation at that, she could tell.
She tried to engage the gentleman on the other side of her in conversation, old General Fairfax, a former commander of Cal’s, but the general was deaf and extremely focused on his supper. For each of her efforts he gave a smile and a nod and returned to shoveling in food, as if at any moment someone would come to snatch his plate away.
As a distraction the general was useless.
The duke plied her with food and drink and gave her his full attention. Taking her cue from the general, George gave supper her full attention.
She felt like a mouse feeding under the gaze of a cat. Or a hawk. A lady mouse with an unladylike appetite. She didher best to throw off her self-consciousness. If he didn’t like her eating so much, he shouldn’t have served her all this delicious food.
Besides which, eating prevented conversation, and that suited George. Every time she’d spoken to this duke she’d managed to offend him. Crab patties were safer than opinions, when one was trying to be good.
“The crab patties are very good, don’t you think?” the duke murmured as he signaled for her glass to be refilled with champagne.
She almost choked. Had he been counting? Was his comment sarcastic, an oblique accusation of gluttony? She gulped down some champagne and muttered, “Cook has done a splendid job.”
Around the tables there was a buzz of conversation, something about Rose’s husband and an earl. She couldn’t quite make it out. She glanced across to where her family was sitting on the other side of the room. They all looked happy enough.
The duke followed her gaze. “Lady Rose’s husband looks rather better than the previous time I saw him.”
“Yes, well, he would. He’d had a difficult time of things.” And then before he could make any critical comment about the man who’d supplanted him, she added firmly, “We are all very fond of Thomas.”
“Lady Salter spoke of him earlier—she didn’t seem very fond of him,” the duke observed.
“No, well, Aunt Agatha doesn’t like anyone very much.”
“She likes me.”
She slid him a sideways glance. “Exactly.”
The winter-gray eyes glinted, but whether with amusement or irritation she couldn’t tell.
Her plate was empty. “What will you have next?” the duke asked. “Fruit tartlets? A cream horn? Lemon curd cake? Brandied custard? Jellies, frosted grapes, ice cream? All of the above?”
