Page 52 of The Lost Duke of Wyndham

“Ah. So you mean that we must learn to converse quickly as well, if we wish to have any enjoyable discourse before the descent of the duchess.”

Her lips twitched. “That wasn’t exactly what I meant, but—” She took a sip of her chocolate, not that that hid her smile. “—it’s close.”

“The things we must learn to do quickly,” he said with a sigh.

She looked up, fork frozen halfway to her mouth. A small blob of egg fell to her plate with a slap. Her cheeks were positively flaming with color.

“I didn’t mean that,” he said, most pleased with the direction of her thoughts. “Good heavens, I would never do that quickly.”

Her lips parted. Not quite an O, but a rather attractive little oval nonetheless.

“Unless, of course I had to,” he added, letting his eyes grow heavy-lidded and warm. “When faced with the choice of speed versus abstinence—”

“Mr. Audley!”

He sat back with a satisfied smile. “I was wondering when you’d scold me.”

“Not soon enough,” she muttered.

He picked up his knife and fork and cut off a piece of bacon. It was thick and pink and perfectly cooked. “And once again, there it is,” he said, popping the meat into his mouth. He chewed, swallowed, then added, “My inability to be serious.”

“But you claimed that wasn’t true.” She leaned in—just an inch or so, but the motion seemed to say—I’m watching you.

He almost shivered. He liked being watched by her.

“You said,” she continued, “that you were frequently serious, and that it is up to me to figure out when.”

“Is that what I said?” he murmured.

“Something rather close to it.”

“Well, then.” He leaned in closer, too, and his eyes captured hers, green on blue, across the breakfast table. “What do you think? Am I being serious right now?”

For a moment he thought she might answer him, but no, she just sat back with an innocent little smile and said, “I really couldn’t say.”

“You disappoint me, Miss Eversleigh.”

Her smile turned positively serene as she returned her attention to the food on her plate. “I couldn’t possibly render judgment on a subject so unfit for my ears,” she murmured.

He laughed aloud at that. “You have a very devious sense of humor, Miss Eversleigh.”

She appeared to be pleased by the compliment, almost as if she’d been waiting for years for someone to acknowledge it. But before she could say anything (if indeed she’d intended to say something), the moment was positively assaulted by the dowager, who marched into the breakfast room trailed by two rather harried and unhappy looking maids.

“What are you laughing about?” she demanded.

“Nothing in particular,” Jack replied, deciding to spare Miss Eversleigh the task of making conversation. After five years in the dowager’s service, the poor girl deserved a respite. “Just enjoying Miss Eversleigh’s enchanting company.”

The dowager shot them both a sharp look. “My plate,” she snapped. One of the maids rushed to the sideboard, but she was halted when the dowager said, “Miss Eversleigh will see to it.”

Grace stood without a word, and the dowager turned to Jack and said, “She is the only one who does it properly.” She shook her head and let out a short-tempered little puff of air, clearly lamenting the levels of intelligence commonly found in the servants.

Jack said nothing, deciding this would be as good a time as any to invoke his aunt’s favorite axiom: If you can’t say something nice, say nothing at all.

Although it was tempting to say something extraordinarily nice about the servants.

Grace returned, plate in hand, set it down in front of the dowager, and then gave it a little twist, turning the disk until the eggs were at nine o’clock, closest to the forks.

Jack watched the entire affair, first curious, then impressed. The plate had been divided into six equal, wedge-shaped sections, each with its own food selection. Nothing touched, not even the hollandaise sauce, which had been dribbled over the eggs with careful precision. “It’s a masterpiece,” he declared, arching forward. He was trying to see if she’d signed her name with the hollandaise.

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