Such an uncharacteristic sentiment caught him by surprise. Seeing as he never spent more than one night in the company of any given woman, her opinion of him the next day had never signified. Reuben’s conquests angled after his prick, not his personality. The entirety of those conversations could be summed up in a few dozen words—if indeed it amounted to anything more than muffled moans and gasps of pleasure.
Now that the gauntlet had been drawn, and the challenge to express himself in words rather than passionate kisses had been issued, Reuben realized he had absolutely no idea what to do.
He was absolutely, unequivocally, horrifically out of his depth.
“The weather,” he blurted out. That was the ton’s preferred entree into polite conversation, was it not?
Miss Smith arched a dark eyebrow. “What about it?”
“It’s…” Reuben swung his head to the side to cast his gaze out of the window. “Overcast.”
“Fascinating.” Miss Smith cast a pointed glance toward the hourglass. “I’m so glad I paid this call, to learn something I can see with my own two eyes.”
Reuben was fairly certain this was not how conversations about the weather usually went.
Very well, then. Non-boring conversation. Something properly interesting that she did not already know. He stared at her in frantic silence. His panicked mind had gone completely and utterly blank.
She reached for one of the biscuits on the serving tray.
“Biscuits,” Reuben babbled inanely.
She paused with her fingers hovering just above the plate of biscuits. “Have you something interesting to say about them?”
No. He did not. He didn’t even know what flavor these were. He’d simply ordered a variety, in the hopes that one of the possibilities would meet Miss Smith’s approval. That much appeared to have succeeded.
Impressing her himself, however… Still a work in progress. How the devil did the poor swains courting fashionable young ladies muddle through twenty minutes of non-sexual conversation? Especially under the watchful eye of the young lady’s mother or chaperone?
No wonder they grasped at straws like Brr, what a blustery day and It looks like rain.
“This inn was built in 1534,” he blurted out.
She arched her brows politely. “Was it?”
“Yes. No. The first inn on these grounds was. It burnt down twice, and has then been rebuilt in the same spot, each time slightly grander.”
“Like Shakespeare’s theatre?”
“Exactly like that,” he said in relief. “Except the Globe Theatre burnt in 1599, then again in 1613 before being fully restored to the theatre we know in 1739. The Blushing Maid Inn likewise suffered a mishap due to a highly flammable thatched roof—”
“Presumably not due to a malfunctioning cannon during a performance of Henry VIII.”
“Far more mundane, I’m afraid.” He grimaced. “An incident in the kitchen.”
“I’m sure it seemed anything but mundane at the time.”
“You’d be right. It happened during the matchmaking festival. Guests were forced to seek shelter elsewhere, but there were no free rooms to be had.”
“What did they do?”
“Share rooms with strangers.” He wiggled his brows. “Who did not remain strangers for long.”
“Making it one of the festival’s greatest matchmaking successes?”
“The most infamous, anyway. Half of the matches that year sprang from scandal. In fact, there was a family of five daughters who—” He closed his teeth with an audible click. “I’m sorry. Two-hundred-year-old gossip is worse than the weather. I swear I don’t mean to bore you.”
“You’re not,” she replied, as though just as surprised by the realization as he was.
He recalled that she had known the fiery past of the Globe Theatre off the top of her head, as well. “Are you a student of history, too?”
