Page 12 of The Duke of Ruin
“Oh yes. Mrs. Watt is quite keen to hear how you and Mrs. Byrd met. I’ll apologize for her now—she’s excessively romantic, the silly woman. Our other guest will also be in attendance. An older fellow, Mr. Alby.”
“Brilliant.”
“I’ll just fetch the drinks.” Mr. Watt bobbed his head and took himself off.
Simon went to the window and looked out into the dark yard. Their travel days were short due to the abbreviated daylight, but they’d been blessed by clear weather so far. One could only hope that would continue.
It had only been a day, but he’d enjoyed spending time with Miss Kingman. They’d read and dozed in the coach, and their conversation had kept entirely to what they were reading, the weather, and the difficulties of traveling. He longed to ask more intimate questions, such as why—specifically—she felt the need to run from her father, but expected there’d be plenty of time for that. He wondered if she felt the same. Was she burning to ask him about his horrid reputation? He couldn’t blame her and acknowledged that he’d likely have to sharesomething.
“Good evening.” The arrival of the other guest—Mr. Alby—interrupted Simon’s thoughts. Mr. Alby, leaning on a cane as he made his way into the dining room, was perhaps nearing seventy. Spectacles perched on his bulbous nose and white, bushy brows peeked over the top of the silver rims.
“Good evening. I’m Byrd.” Simon offered his hand but belatedly realized Alby was using his to hold on to his cane.
The older man raised his left hand instead for an awkward, but firm handshake. “Pleased to make your acquaintance. I understand your wife will also be joining us.”
“Indeed she will.” He moved to one of the chairs and held it out. “May I help you get settled?”
“Very kind of you, my boy,” Alby said, pitching himself into the chair with a subtle “Oof.” He leaned his cane against the table.
The rustle of a skirt drew Simon to turn back to the doorway. Miss Kingman was still dressed in her traveling costume, but she’d removed the matching hat and discarded her gloves. Her dark hair was knotted into a simple bun at the back of her head, but she’d teased a few strands to curl about her face. Well, not curl exactly, but wave gently. She was incomparably fetching, even though she’d slept in that dress. What would she sleep in tonight, he wondered?
Hell, he shouldn’t think of things like that when they were in company. Why, because he might become aroused? He didn’t do that anymore. Rather, he hadn’t until he’d kissed the woman standing in front of him at that house party. She’d reawakened the man buried inside the shell he’d become, and now he was to spend days on end with her without a chaperone. And he had to pretend to be infatuated with her.
No, that wouldn’t be difficult. She breathed a life into him he’d long forgotten, and he’d take it. If only for a short time.
He smiled at her and moved to take her hand, guiding her into the room. The moment their bare flesh connected, awareness tingled through him. “Here’s my wife. Mrs. Byrd, allow me to present Mr. Alby. Mr. Alby, this is Mrs. Byrd.”
Miss Kingman let go of his hand—disappointingly—and dipped a brief curtsey. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Alby.”
Mr. Watt came in then, carrying a tray with their drinks. “Well, good evening, Mrs. Byrd! Dinner is just about ready.” He unloaded the tray onto the table, setting Miss Kingman’s wineglass at the seat across from Mr. Alby. He set the teapot and cup in front of the seat beside hers. Then he turned to Mr. Alby. “May I bring you some ale or Madeira? The latter is what I’ve delivered for Mrs. Byrd.”
“Ale, thank you.”
With a nod, Mr. Watt departed once more.
Simon held Miss Kingman’s chair out as she sank onto the cushion, then pushed her toward the table before taking his own seat.
Alby blinked at him from behind his spectacles. “Is the tea for you, Byrd?”
“It is.” Simon picked up the teapot and poured the brew into his cup.
Alby turned his head to Miss Kingman. “Is your husband ill? Or do you forbid him from drink?”
Miss Kingman shot him a look of alarm. Perhaps he should’ve prepared her for this. It hadn’t even occurred to him. Hell, what else hadn’t occurred to him? Maybe this would be more difficult than he’d anticipated.
“I don’t take spirits,” Simon said smoothly. “I prefer to keep a clear head at all times.”
Alby looked horrified. “No ale or wine or spirits of any kind?”
Simon shook his head.
“Bloody strange,” Alby muttered as he shook his head.
Miss Kingman lifted her glass to take a sip and peered sideways at Simon, her gaze curious. He busied himself with drinking his tea and was saved from further interrogation by the arrival of Mrs. Watt.
She bustled in with a tray of food and went about setting it on the table.
“I don’t suppose you’re serving pheasant?” Simon asked hopefully.
