Elinor rolled her eyes. But she was charmed when de Winter strode up to Aunt Millie and made a fuss over her hand. “It would appear I came just in time to make even numbers,” he said, folding Aunt Millie’s gloved fingers into the crook of his elbow. “Shall we?”
Elinor snatched her own gloved hand behind her, though Lord Chelford hadn’t tried to take it yet. Then she felt silly. She’d come to his house. Why, by dint of being here, she’d essentially promised him the pleasure of escorting her into the dining room.
His pleasure, she reminded herself. It shouldn’t send her into raptures.
She allowed him to see her in. Each step took her in a direction filled with more than the anticipation of a delicious meal. She recalled the lacy underthings Aunt Millie had helped her select and felt a stirring at her core. Did he feel the same? Stretched taut by an aching longing to have her, and a frantic desire to do so now?
She was glad of her gloves. Without them, he would surely know how damp her palm was, nestled in the crook of his elbow. How could she feel this nervous around a man she didn’t even approve of?
They managed dinner without incident. To her grudging enchantment, Lord Chelford led the conversation along pleasant subjects, even drawing a laugh from her with his disenchanted description of Almack’s. Given that she’d passed the last five years of her life pining for an invitation to its hallowed halls, that was quite the accomplishment, indeed.
“And what is Gloucester like?” he asked her after all that was left of her crème brûlée dessert was a sticky puddle of syrup.
She reached for her wine glass. Unlike the last time they’d dined together, she’d been careful not to let her cup be refilled. “I adore Gloucester,” she hyperbolized, for she nonetheless was feeling the wine’s loosening effects. “You cannot imagine how satisfying it is to always know exactly what to expect.”
“Or how dull that would be,” he inferred, drawing another smile from her. “Complacency is the death of delight.”
She adored the ring of truth in that. Nonetheless, she didn’t want to seem so downhearted that he found her pitiable. “It’s not all bad, my lord. The country can be charming, and I was never lonely. I had my sisters.”
“But you did want to make your debut, I imagine. Be presented at court, and cast your fellow debutantes in shadow. Sift your fingers through a bucket of calling cards and choose one at random, just to be disagreeable to the other hostesses.” He smiled rakishly. “All young ladies do.”
She turned to him so quickly she almost planted her bosom in her empty dessert plate. She was about to agree effusively when de Winter withdrew a thin cheroot from a case and rolled it between his forefinger and thumb. “I’d no idea you’d put so much thought into your debut, Chelford.”
A shadow swept across Grantham’s face. Elinor forgot about everything: the Season she’d never experience, her lack of a trousseau, the bucket of calling cards she could only daydream about. She saw only Grantham’s pain. Clearly, he’d known what she’d longed for because he’d heeded his sister’s rapturous planning for her own come-out.
Elinor stole her hand across his. Briefly, she brushed her fingertips over his knuckles. “I would have loved it.”
He stared at the place where their skin had touched. By degrees, he splayed his hand across the fine woven tablecloth. “She would have, too.”
De Winter lit his cheroot using a nearby candle, then held his mother of pearl case toward Aunt Millie. “Cheroot, madam?”
“Why not? I know I said I wouldn’t, but it seems we shall all relish the past tonight.” She selected one and brought it to her curved lips. When she rested her hand on the back of de Winter’s chair and tilted her body toward his, Elinor didn’t mistake the invitation in her aunt’s eyes.
Nor did de Winter. He cupped Aunt Millie’s chin and touched the glowing tip of his cheroot to hers. It crackled to life. “Is madam satisfied?” he murmured.
“Perhaps.” Again the s lingered, full of possibility.
Their little performance worked to turn the topic. Although, Elinor wasn’t entirely sure it was entirely put on. De Winter’s submission was especially suspect. It wasn’t that Aunt Millie was beautiful, for she wasn’t. She kept her figure trim and her fiery hair piled in a modern style, but even as a young woman, she wouldn’t have been lovely. Her nose was too bold and her bones too sturdy. But she believed de Winter should want her, and so he did, or at least, he was willing to pretend as much. Elinor was enthralled.