Page 10 of The Traitor
He stirred her tea and set the spoon on the saucer, another nicety, done with both elegance and a casual ease.
“And if it rains, Miss Danforth? Will you let the footmen make you a blazing fire in the library, order a pot of chocolate, and curl up with one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels?”
His tone invited a confidence, and his green eyes were so grave as to invite all manner of nonsense. He was being French, for all he’d served her tea like an Englishman.
The image his words evoked, an image of an afternoon spent in a world of fictional adventure and happy endings, was painful nonetheless.
“I might sketch, my lord. I also enjoy paper cutting, embroidery, and knitting.”
He downed his tea in one gulp, then shuddered. “Knitting. You are a paragon of domestic virtue, Miss Danforth, and as such, I pronounce you entitled to apply that jam to your tart. You’ve been staring at it with shameless longing, you know.”
No, she had not. She’d been thinking of an afternoon in the library with shameless longing. “Yes, my lord.”
Her response was the most innocuous ever manufactured on a pretty English morning, and yet, St. Clair narrowed his eyes at her.
“You have been good forTante. She’s laughed more in the past fortnight than in the previous season. She flirts with the help, and she dwells less on me and my endless shortcomings, matrimonial or otherwise.” He came to an internal conclusion. “Sheworriesless. I am in your debt, Miss Danforth.”
He was not an easy man to spend time with, but he knew how to give a sincere compliment. The occasion was so rare for Milly, a blush rose up, along with a pleasant warmth in her middle.
“Thank you, my lord. One wants to be useful in this life.” One also wanted a decent place to sleep and some food, too, and the St. Clair household provided that in generous abundance, along with a tidy bit of coin.
Aunt Hyacinth had been right. A good position could be far better than the crusts and criticism handed out among one’s own family.
“One does want to be useful.” He slid the jam pot closer to her plate and rose. “If you will excuse me, madam. Like my aunt, I have correspondence that demands my attention, though your company has been a delight.”
He might have bowed to her, but Milly was staring at the jam, trying to ignore his meaningless flattery. She heard him move off toward the door, and reached for the preserves.
“Miss Danforth?”
He’d stopped by the door, a big, elegant man who could carry off lace at his throat and wrists even in riding attire.
“Sir?”
“You must not begrudge yourself that rainy day in the library. Nobody can be a paragon all the time.”
And then he strode off, while Milly dipped her knife into the jam, and wished—and wished and wished and wished—she might someday have that afternoon with Mrs. Radcliffe.
***
Though Sebastian wished it were not so, another infernal duel was brewing. He could feel it, could sense it in the way the members of his club barely met his eye when he nodded to them across the reading room.
They would not speak to him if they could avoid it. That he even had membership was only because the Benevolent Society for the Furtherance of Agrarian Science had been too unsophisticated to realize that Sebastian St. Clair was the Traitor Baron himself. By the time they’d become aware of their blunder, Sebastian had made a contribution of unignorable proportions to their experimental farm out in Chelsea.
He’d spent those precious funds because a man needed the company of his fellows, even if it was silent, nervous company lured close with coin, and tacit acceptance of the fact that he was merely tolerated in their midst.
“Ah, there you are!”Tantecame fluttering into his study without knocking, a gleam in her eyes Sebastian had learned to respect. “You look quite intellectual, St. Clair. Those spectacles are deceiving.”
“The spectacles are necessary if I’m to make sense of your figures, madam.” Years of figures that she’d kept meticulously in the absence of husband, son, nephew, or grandson.
She settled into a chair opposite his desk, a sparrow coming to light. “I wear them too, when I’m at my correspondence, but spectacles become no one. Will you accompany Miss Danforth and me to the Levien musicale?”
No, he would not. “When is it?”
“Next Tuesday. Tuesday evenings are when all the best events take place. I’m having some new gowns made up for Milly, and the woman adores music. There’s a pianist on offer, a single gentleman who’s the son of a duke. I think he might do for your cousin Fern, or perhaps Ivy, though not Iris. The girl can’t carry a tune, tipsy or sober.”
God help the pianist.Tantewould set loose an entire flower bed of eligible young ladies on him before his recital was complete.
“I’m afraid I must attend a meeting at the club Tuesday evening. I’m trying to convince the members that peaches are worth investing in.”
