The Cheer in Charming an Earl(14)
Grantham coughed hoarsely. He thumped his chest a few times then wiped at his eyes, which had gone watery. When he tried to talk, his voice rasped out.
She reached with her free hand as if to touch his brow. “Are you feeling unwell?”
He jerked away from her fingertips. “Just a tickle.” He coughed again. “Mrs. Fawcett wasn’t precisely pleasant to you earlier. Why the admiration?”
Elinor drew back sharply. “Wasn’t she, though?”
He gave her a thoughtful once-over. “I think you must be wonderfully naïve, Miss Conley.”
He looked as if he’d say more, but the double doors of the dining room stood open before them. Everyone else had already taken their seats.
When she realized she was to be placed beside him near the head of the table, she almost swooned. But as the salads were brought out and the wine poured liberally into goblets set amid boughs of holly, it became clear there would be no more private talk between them.
There were simply too many others to address. All at once, it seemed. “Miss Pearson, where are you from?” she was asked from down the length of the table.
“Have you any money?” someone fired across.
“Will you be searched for?” another wondered aloud.
They hardly left her time to think, let alone answer. As her head became muddled with wine, the questions became more personal, and she struggled to keep up with the swiftly changing stream of conversation.
“Have you been to London?”
“Do you know any reels?”
“Are you engaged?”
“May I see you under the kissing ball?”
She blinked. That nonsense was from Lord Steepleton, the last man she’d consider setting her lips to. But as she narrowed her eyes on him, he only laughed and leaned to whisper something in Mrs. Eells’s ear.
The red-haired woman glanced at Elinor. Then she laughed, too.
Elinor folded her hands in her lap and tried not to look “wonderfully naïve.” Only then did she notice the courses had been cleared and the men were at their port. How Bohemian! Not at all what she expected of an earl. It wasn’t that she’d never stayed on after dinner with a man; at home, Gavin often took his port and tobacco while she and her sisters remained in the room. But that was because they were family. Gavin seemed to enjoy passing a quarter hour or so asking after their day and reassuring himself they had all they required for the morrow. Really, there wasn’t much point to formality in a house as small as theirs, anyway. But here, in this grand mansion, Grantham must have a dozen rooms where she and the ladies might have retired. Instead he chose to relax in their company.
She looked around to see if any of the other females were as charmed as she was and realized Mrs. Fawcett and Cousin Fanny were smoking thin paper cheroots, just like the men. Good heavens, these women were quite fast! Could she be allowed to join them?
Mr. Tewseybury caught the direction of her gaze. He extended his cheroot toward her. Before she could reach for it, Grantham batted it away. “Let her alone.”
“Just doing the chivalrous thing.” Mr. Tewseybury drew on the cheroot until the end glowed red, then expelled the smoke in a fragrant, impressive O.
“Good heavens! Teach me to do that!” She leaned forward too fast. Her head spun. The combination of wine, smoke and her earlier megrim threatened to undo her dinner, and she clutched the edge of the table.
“Amateur little pet.” Mrs. Fawcett’s voice held a hint of amusement. She reminded Elinor of a cat, one sated and ready to stretch her paws. “Yet I can see you’re fascinated, Chelford.”
“Someone ought to help her to bed.” Grantham’s hand settled on Elinor’s upper arm and she jumped at the contact. “Miss Pearson, I think that will be all for tonight.”
“No!” she cried. “It’s Christmas Eve. We need presents.”
“We’re not children.” Lord Steepleton smirked. “At least, most of us aren’t.”
She stood abruptly. “I have presents.” The room did a pirouette around her. Nevertheless, she was determined. She made a beeline for the door and was halfway to the servants’ hall before anyone got himself together enough to try to stop her.
Or mayhap no one intended to stop her. She reached her room without incident and knelt beside her trunk. Buried in the bottom of the box was a metal locket with a tendril of her hair curled carefully into it. Only her sweetest smile had convinced her brother’s apprentice to forge it for her in secret; the tendril she’d trimmed herself. She withdrew the adornment and a pink kerchief with her initials embroidered in one corner. Then, thinking quickly, she fished around in her portmanteau until she found a container filled with Georgiana’s famous biscuits.