on arthritis, too, Mr. Carsington?” said Mrs. Badgely. “In humans?”
“I’m familiar with the ailment,” he said. He turned his attention to the woman occupying most of the love seat.
When he turned his attention upon someone, Charlotte had noticed at dinner, he did so absolutely.
As she’d told him, dinners at Lithby Hall were quite informal. At times people did talk—or shout—across the table and sometimes—as when Papa and Lizzie had something to say to each other—down its length. She’d noticed how Mr. Carsington would turn his attention to one, then another, when his interest was caught, and it was easy to tell when that happened. He became completely fixed, to the exclusion of everything and everyone else. He’d reminded her of a falcon on high, sighting its prey.
Now he fixed on Mrs. Badgely, who had begun enumerating in exhaustive detail her many symptoms and the treatments she’d tried.
Charlotte started to turn away.
“Are you not interested, Lady Charlotte?” he said.
“The poor child’s heard it all scores of times, but she’s too tactful to say so,” said Mrs. Badgely.
Though excused, Charlotte hesitated. This was not because she did not wish to seem indifferent to the lady’s troubles. Some devil inside her wanted to watch him suffer from Mrs. Badgely’s arthritis as well as one of her inquisitions.
“Have you tried castor oil, Mrs. Badgely?” he said.
Castor oil? Was he joking? Charlotte tried without success to read his face.
“The trouble is in my joints, not my bowels, young man,” said Mrs. Badgely. “My bowels are in excellent order—and I don’t mean to disorder them with purging and such. A lot of quackery, if you ask me.”
“I should have been more explicit,” said Mr. Carsington. “Have you tried rubbing castor oil upon the affected joints? Not long ago a physician presented a paper describing his experiments with the remedy. I recommended it to my grandmother. Though she hates me, she admitted that the treatment succeeded.”
“Your grandmother hates you?” Charlotte said.
She said it unthinkingly, surprise and curiosity taking the fore. The falcon’s gaze swung back to her, and she wished she’d held her tongue. She wished, in fact, she’d made herself scarce as soon as she’d delivered him to the neighborhood crocodile.
“Yes,” he said.
“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Badgely. “Parents may find their offspring detestable from time to time, but grandparents always dote upon their grandchildren. I speak from experience.”
“She hates me,” he said, still watching Charlotte. “She sent for me a fortnight ago expressly to tell me so.”
“If it is true,” said Charlotte, “how strange that you should boast of it.”
“I wasn’t boasting,” he said. “I merely wished Mrs. Badgely to understand that the remedy was deemed effective by a skeptic who was prejudiced against me. Do you wish to know why Grandmother Hargate hates me?”
Yes, desperately.
But he didn’t want to tell her, Charlotte was sure. What he wanted was to make her guess. After eight Seasons, she had no trouble recognizing an invitation to flirt.
After eight Seasons, her heart ought not to beat so fast, and she ought not to feel a surge of anticipation.
“I should never expect you to discuss so private and painful a matter with a stranger,” she said.
She made herself walk away.
Darius watched her go. A few blond tendrils had come loose from the pins to caress the graceful arch of her neck. He recalled the tiny spot of mud he’d been tempted to groom earlier. Even tonight, in a crowd of people, he’d not had the easiest time keeping his mouth from that neck.
He recalled the agreeable warmth of her breast against his hand.
His hands itched.
He should have kept away. He was not used to resisting temptation, that was the trouble. He’d always avoided situations where he’d have to resist it. He shouldn’t have to resist it, drat her.
What a tiresome
“I’m familiar with the ailment,” he said. He turned his attention to the woman occupying most of the love seat.
When he turned his attention upon someone, Charlotte had noticed at dinner, he did so absolutely.
As she’d told him, dinners at Lithby Hall were quite informal. At times people did talk—or shout—across the table and sometimes—as when Papa and Lizzie had something to say to each other—down its length. She’d noticed how Mr. Carsington would turn his attention to one, then another, when his interest was caught, and it was easy to tell when that happened. He became completely fixed, to the exclusion of everything and everyone else. He’d reminded her of a falcon on high, sighting its prey.
Now he fixed on Mrs. Badgely, who had begun enumerating in exhaustive detail her many symptoms and the treatments she’d tried.
Charlotte started to turn away.
“Are you not interested, Lady Charlotte?” he said.
“The poor child’s heard it all scores of times, but she’s too tactful to say so,” said Mrs. Badgely.
Though excused, Charlotte hesitated. This was not because she did not wish to seem indifferent to the lady’s troubles. Some devil inside her wanted to watch him suffer from Mrs. Badgely’s arthritis as well as one of her inquisitions.
“Have you tried castor oil, Mrs. Badgely?” he said.
Castor oil? Was he joking? Charlotte tried without success to read his face.
“The trouble is in my joints, not my bowels, young man,” said Mrs. Badgely. “My bowels are in excellent order—and I don’t mean to disorder them with purging and such. A lot of quackery, if you ask me.”
“I should have been more explicit,” said Mr. Carsington. “Have you tried rubbing castor oil upon the affected joints? Not long ago a physician presented a paper describing his experiments with the remedy. I recommended it to my grandmother. Though she hates me, she admitted that the treatment succeeded.”
“Your grandmother hates you?” Charlotte said.
She said it unthinkingly, surprise and curiosity taking the fore. The falcon’s gaze swung back to her, and she wished she’d held her tongue. She wished, in fact, she’d made herself scarce as soon as she’d delivered him to the neighborhood crocodile.
“Yes,” he said.
“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Badgely. “Parents may find their offspring detestable from time to time, but grandparents always dote upon their grandchildren. I speak from experience.”
“She hates me,” he said, still watching Charlotte. “She sent for me a fortnight ago expressly to tell me so.”
“If it is true,” said Charlotte, “how strange that you should boast of it.”
“I wasn’t boasting,” he said. “I merely wished Mrs. Badgely to understand that the remedy was deemed effective by a skeptic who was prejudiced against me. Do you wish to know why Grandmother Hargate hates me?”
Yes, desperately.
But he didn’t want to tell her, Charlotte was sure. What he wanted was to make her guess. After eight Seasons, she had no trouble recognizing an invitation to flirt.
After eight Seasons, her heart ought not to beat so fast, and she ought not to feel a surge of anticipation.
“I should never expect you to discuss so private and painful a matter with a stranger,” she said.
She made herself walk away.
Darius watched her go. A few blond tendrils had come loose from the pins to caress the graceful arch of her neck. He recalled the tiny spot of mud he’d been tempted to groom earlier. Even tonight, in a crowd of people, he’d not had the easiest time keeping his mouth from that neck.
He recalled the agreeable warmth of her breast against his hand.
His hands itched.
He should have kept away. He was not used to resisting temptation, that was the trouble. He’d always avoided situations where he’d have to resist it. He shouldn’t have to resist it, drat her.
What a tiresome
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