ache.
Theodore sat, perfectly at home, and began a long and detailed description of the quail his cook had placed before him for last night’s dinner. Irritated and bored, Nic tried to catch Olivia’s eye, but she was giving every sign of listening to her beau with fascinated interest.
“Mr. Garsed is quite a gourmet,” Mrs. Monteith explained fondly. “Do you have a French chef, Lord Lacey?”
“My cook has been in the family for years, Mrs.Monteith. I can’t say she’s ever tried her hand at quail, but her jam roly-poly is to die for.”
Olivia laughed, and Nic turned to her with a smile.
Theodore shuddered. “Good God, man, you need to dismiss her immediately and find yourself someone who is au fait with the latest dishes.”
Nic’s smile faded. “Is that what you would do, Theodore? Dismiss her without reason? Out with the old and in with the new?”
“Most definitely. If you like, I can give you the name of a superlative chef. Expensive, but well worth it.”
“That is very kind of you, Mr. Garsed,” Mrs. Monteith gushed. “I’m sure no one is more to be relied on than you when it comes to fashionable food.”
“I pride myself on it, Mrs. Monteith.”
“I wonder if my cook would thank you, Theodore,” Nic drawled, lounging back in his chair, one hand jammed in his pocket, his dark hair falling over his brow, his eyes gleaming with malice. “She and her family have been with my family for generations, and our loyalty to each other is a matter of pride. I don’t think she’d understand if I sacked her because she couldn’t cook the latest recipe from Paris.”
Theodore, flushed and humiliated, rose to his feet. “You’re willfully misunderstanding me, Lacey. But I refuse to be insulted by a man who eats jam roly-poly.” And he shuddered.
“Oh? What a shame.”
“Lord Lacey,” Olivia said sharply.
He met her reproving gaze and then shrugged and said mildly, “Miss Monteith wants me to apologize, Theodore, so I will. No need to throw a tantrum.”
“I have never thrown a tantrum in my life, Lacey. Far too undignified.”
“You disappoint me. I hoped you were going to call me out. I am a crack shot, you know.”
Mrs. Monteith gasped and clasped a hand to her breast. “A duel, oh Lord no…”
“I have no intention of upsetting Miss Monteith by calling you out.” Theodore bristled, even redder than before. “I value her peace of mind.”
“Lord Lacey isn’t fighting a duel with anyone,” Olivia interrupted in a firm voice, casting Nic a warning glance. “Are you, my lord?”
Nic hesitated, sorely tempted, and then he smiled at her, an unapologetic smile, and shook his head. “No, Miss Monteith.”
“Well, thank goodness for that,” Mrs. Monteith exclaimed.
“I forgot to tell you that I’ve heard from my brother, Alphonse, Miss Monteith. He’s visiting me. You have met him before…?”
Olivia looked as if it hadn’t been a pleasant experience, but she rallied a smile. “I have, Mr. Garsed. I look forward to renewing the acquaintance. Will he be staying long?”
“I don’t know. With my brother, Alphonse, one never knows.”
Just then the mantel clock chimed the halfhour. There was an expectant silence. Nic knew what that meant: Polite society decreed that half an hour was all the time one was allowed for a visit in this situation. Theodore would also be well aware of such a decree—in fact he had mentioned it on their way in—and, unlike Nic, he would never flaunt such a basic rule of etiquette.
As Nic expected, Theodore cleared his throat loudly, and when Nic didn’t move, he spoke with a blustering attempt at authority. “Is that the time? We really should be leaving.” And he gave Nic a pointed look.
Nic brushed at his cuff and remained exactly where he was.
“Miss Monteith needs her rest,” Theodore said petulantly, deflated.
“Of course she does,” Nic agreed, remaining where he was.
Mrs. Monteith looked as if she wished she could
Theodore sat, perfectly at home, and began a long and detailed description of the quail his cook had placed before him for last night’s dinner. Irritated and bored, Nic tried to catch Olivia’s eye, but she was giving every sign of listening to her beau with fascinated interest.
“Mr. Garsed is quite a gourmet,” Mrs. Monteith explained fondly. “Do you have a French chef, Lord Lacey?”
“My cook has been in the family for years, Mrs.Monteith. I can’t say she’s ever tried her hand at quail, but her jam roly-poly is to die for.”
Olivia laughed, and Nic turned to her with a smile.
Theodore shuddered. “Good God, man, you need to dismiss her immediately and find yourself someone who is au fait with the latest dishes.”
Nic’s smile faded. “Is that what you would do, Theodore? Dismiss her without reason? Out with the old and in with the new?”
“Most definitely. If you like, I can give you the name of a superlative chef. Expensive, but well worth it.”
“That is very kind of you, Mr. Garsed,” Mrs. Monteith gushed. “I’m sure no one is more to be relied on than you when it comes to fashionable food.”
“I pride myself on it, Mrs. Monteith.”
“I wonder if my cook would thank you, Theodore,” Nic drawled, lounging back in his chair, one hand jammed in his pocket, his dark hair falling over his brow, his eyes gleaming with malice. “She and her family have been with my family for generations, and our loyalty to each other is a matter of pride. I don’t think she’d understand if I sacked her because she couldn’t cook the latest recipe from Paris.”
Theodore, flushed and humiliated, rose to his feet. “You’re willfully misunderstanding me, Lacey. But I refuse to be insulted by a man who eats jam roly-poly.” And he shuddered.
“Oh? What a shame.”
“Lord Lacey,” Olivia said sharply.
He met her reproving gaze and then shrugged and said mildly, “Miss Monteith wants me to apologize, Theodore, so I will. No need to throw a tantrum.”
“I have never thrown a tantrum in my life, Lacey. Far too undignified.”
“You disappoint me. I hoped you were going to call me out. I am a crack shot, you know.”
Mrs. Monteith gasped and clasped a hand to her breast. “A duel, oh Lord no…”
“I have no intention of upsetting Miss Monteith by calling you out.” Theodore bristled, even redder than before. “I value her peace of mind.”
“Lord Lacey isn’t fighting a duel with anyone,” Olivia interrupted in a firm voice, casting Nic a warning glance. “Are you, my lord?”
Nic hesitated, sorely tempted, and then he smiled at her, an unapologetic smile, and shook his head. “No, Miss Monteith.”
“Well, thank goodness for that,” Mrs. Monteith exclaimed.
“I forgot to tell you that I’ve heard from my brother, Alphonse, Miss Monteith. He’s visiting me. You have met him before…?”
Olivia looked as if it hadn’t been a pleasant experience, but she rallied a smile. “I have, Mr. Garsed. I look forward to renewing the acquaintance. Will he be staying long?”
“I don’t know. With my brother, Alphonse, one never knows.”
Just then the mantel clock chimed the halfhour. There was an expectant silence. Nic knew what that meant: Polite society decreed that half an hour was all the time one was allowed for a visit in this situation. Theodore would also be well aware of such a decree—in fact he had mentioned it on their way in—and, unlike Nic, he would never flaunt such a basic rule of etiquette.
As Nic expected, Theodore cleared his throat loudly, and when Nic didn’t move, he spoke with a blustering attempt at authority. “Is that the time? We really should be leaving.” And he gave Nic a pointed look.
Nic brushed at his cuff and remained exactly where he was.
“Miss Monteith needs her rest,” Theodore said petulantly, deflated.
“Of course she does,” Nic agreed, remaining where he was.
Mrs. Monteith looked as if she wished she could
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