Diane Gaston – A Lady of Notoriety (страница 12)

She was silent for a moment before answering in a serious tone, ‘Yes. I am a wealthy widow.’

They drank their claret in such silence Hugh could hear the ticking of the clock and each small rustle of her skirts, but it did not take long for Carter to come to the door to announce dinner.

‘Dinner is served, m’l— Oh!’ He cut himself off. ‘Mr Westleigh! You are here.’

‘Mr Westleigh will eat dinner in the dining room with me, Carter.’ Mrs Asher made it sound as if nothing was amiss. She must be practised in hiding emotions from servants.

‘Very good, ma’am,’ Carter said. ‘I shall run ahead and set his place.’

Hugh heard Mrs Asher stand, and rose himself, offering her his arm—or hoping he was not merely posturing to the air.

Her fingers curled around his upper arm. ‘I’ll show you to the dining room.’

He smiled. ‘That is a good thing, else I might wander the house bumping into walls.’

‘You were very clever making it to the drawing room.’ She did not sound annoyed.

Perhaps this was a truce of sorts.

She led him out the door. ‘We are crossing the hall. The dining room is on the other side, a mirror to this room. The cottage really has a very simple plan.’

So, coming down the steps, the drawing room was to the left; the dining room to the right. ‘What other rooms are on this floor?’

‘A library behind the drawing room,’ she began.

He cut her off with a laugh. ‘I don’t suppose I’ll make much use of that.’

Her step faltered. ‘Behind the dining room is an ante-room with cupboards for dishes and cutlery and such. From that room there are stairs down to the kitchen and housekeeper’s rooms.’

He was able to visualise it. It did not seem like a large home for a wealthy widow, though.

They crossed the threshold to the dining room and she walked with him to what must have been the head of the table.

He heard the chair being pulled out. She released his arm and sat.

Carter came to his side. ‘Your chair is here, sir.’ He helped him to a seat adjacent to hers.

‘Our meal will be rather simple, I’m afraid,’ Mrs Asher said. ‘Some lamb stew and bread.’

It must have been near because Hugh could smell it. ‘It will be perfectly adequate for me. My appetite appears to have returned full force. I am very likely to eat whatever you put before me and demand seconds.’

He heard Carter pour some liquid. A glass of wine, Hugh could tell by its fragrance.

‘That is a healthy sign, I suppose,’ she said. ‘Perhaps tomorrow we shall have fancier fare. We shall have a cook tomorrow. And another footman.’

He frowned. ‘You are hiring many new servants.’

‘Y-yes.’ Her voice cracked. ‘Well.’ She recovered. ‘I just came from a lengthy stay abroad, you see.’

‘You are rebuilding your staff?’

‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘That is it.’

He tilted his head. Why did she always sound as if she had something to hide?

He had no desire to challenge her at the moment, though. Not when she briefly seemed at ease with him.

‘I was abroad, as well,’ he said instead. ‘In Brussels. Were you there?’

‘No.’ She paused as if there were more for her to conceal. ‘In Switzerland.’

‘Ah, Switzerland. A place I should like to visit.’

Carter placed a dish in front of him and the aroma of the stew filled his nostrils. ‘Here is the stew, sir. I will place the bread on the left for you.’

‘Thank you, Carter.’ He lifted his head in what he hoped was Mrs Asher’s direction. ‘It smells quite delicious.’

He could hear her being served, as well. She thanked Carter and his footsteps receded.

‘Do eat, Mr Westleigh,’ she said.

He felt for the fork first. Spearing meat with the fork seemed the easiest means of getting the food into his mouth. It took him several tries, but he finally succeeded. The lamb was flavourful and tender. Next he managed to spear some potato. Eating so little in the past two days had wreaked havoc on his appetite. It indeed felt like he could not get enough.

‘Is it to your liking?’ she asked.

He laughed. ‘You cannot tell? I am certain I am shovelling it in like an ill-mannered peasant.’

‘You are allowed some lack of graces due to your injuries.’ His blindness, she meant.

He forced himself to slow down, searching for the bread and tearing off a piece. ‘What brought you to Switzerland?’ he asked.

‘A...’ She paused. ‘A retreat, you might say.’

He’d heard of spa towns on the Continent, places where a wealthy widow might go for a lengthy recuperation.

Or perhaps to have a child out of wedlock. Was that her secret? She seemed sad enough for such a happenstance. It would explain that air of concealment he sensed in her.

A wave of tenderness towards her washed over him. Women always had a more difficult lot in life. Men seduced women and women paid the price. A child out of wedlock—it made perfect sense.

* * *

Daphne toyed with her food, her appetite fleeing under his questions and the impact of his appearance, attired in coat and waistcoat. His coat fit beautifully, accenting his broad shoulders and tapering to his lean waist. He made it difficult to ignore that he was more than an invalid, more than a member of the family who despised her. He was a man, and his presence seemed to fill the room.

He’d paused and she feared he could sense she was staring at him. She averted her gaze, now wishing he would ask her about her retreat in Switzerland, even if she did not know how to tell him her retreat was in a Catholic convent.

He tore off another piece of bread. ‘My stay in Brussels was anything but a retreat.’

She breathed a sigh of relief. He was like most men. Wishing to talk about himself.

‘Is that so?’ she responded politely.

‘My time was spent disentangling my father’s affairs,’ he went on. ‘He was living there, you see. And he died there several months ago.’

‘I am so sorry.’ She felt genuinely sympathetic. She’d not known of the earl’s death.

She’d heard the Earl of Westleigh had been living on the Continent. Some scandal associated with the Masquerade Club, she recalled, but she could not remember the details. In her nights spent in attendance at the club, she’d not paid much attention to anything but her own interests.

‘Do not be sorry,’ he countered. ‘He was the very worst of fathers. The worst of men. Perhaps you’ve heard of him? The infamous Earl of Westleigh?’ He exaggerated his father’s name.

‘I have heard of him.’ He’d been an acquaintance of her late husband’s and only a few years older. ‘But only his name, really.’ It was true. Her husband had not gossiped with her about the people he knew.

‘My brother Ned, the new earl, sent me to deal with whatever trouble our father caused. I am glad this was my last trip.’

She did not know what to say to this, so she offered more food. ‘Would you like more stew?’

‘I would indeed.’ He smiled.

He had a nice smile, she thought.

He was also the first person she’d ever met who admitted to not grieving the loss of a family member. Perhaps she wasn’t so strange after all, that the deaths of her parents had left her feeling so little emotion. She’d hardly known them. She had regretted that.

‘Did you not like Brussels, then?’ she asked, just to make conversation.

‘It is a beautiful city.’ He averted his head. ‘But too full of memories for me. When I walk through its streets, all I can think of is Waterloo.’

‘You were in the great battle?’ All she knew of the battle was what she read in the newspapers that reached Faville.

‘Yes.’ His voice turned wooden.