Page 25 of Oddity of the Ton
He gritted his teeth and bestowed a warm smile upon his dinner companion as a liveried footman steered her toward her place.
“Lady Arabella, a pleasure.”
She inclined her head in response, then stood beside her seat and glared at the footman. “Well?” she snapped. “Must I seat myself?”
The footman—who couldn’t have seen more than fourteen summers—colored and drew back the chair. She gave a sharp sigh, then slapped his hand off the back of the seat.
“What must our hostess bethinking, employing such an incompetent creature! I’ve a good mind to suggest she has him dismissed.”
“Perhaps he’s only recently entered her employ,” Monty said.
“He shouldn’t be allowed above stairs until he’s fit to be seen.”
Was this what he must endure for the duration of the meal?
And it was. Despite the exquisiteness of the dishes, Monty’s dinner partner found fault with everything. The fish was too cold, the wine too sour—the meat was too tough, and the dessert too sweet. So engrossed was Lady Arabella in her soliloquy on the inferiority of the meal that Monty was able to say little, provided he punctuated his responses with the occasional nod or appropriately timed murmur of agreement. And as long as he fixed his gaze on the food in front of him and not meet his companion’s eyes, he could avoid being drawn into a full conversation.
Never before had the pattern on the dinner set, or the facets of the wineglass, provided such an object of interest.
“And the taste of it left a lot to be desired. What did you think, Your Grace?”
Bugger.
This question required more than a simpleyesorno.
“In my opinion it was over-salted,” she continued, removing the necessity of a response. “I abhor an excess of salt, don’t you?”
“Yes, Mother.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Shit.
“Yes, Lady Arabella.”
She frowned, then nodded. “I’m glad we’re of one mind. If we had no standards, where would the world be? Ruination, that’s where.”
“Our hostess might appreciate the benefit of your wisdom on standards,” Monty couldn’t resist saying.
“Well, at the very least she should treat her subordinates with a firmer hand, rather than let them take advantage. ButI’mnot one to criticize.”
Monty’s body convulsed with mirth, and he let out a snort, disguised it as a cough, then took a mouthful of wine.
“If Iwereto say anything, I’d advise her on the folly of letting her husband’s”—she hesitated, wrinkling her nose—“bratrun unfettered about the place as if he were part of the family.”
“Westbury’s natural sonispart of the family,” Monty replied. “He’s also sitting directly across the table.”
The fear in Lady Arabella’s eyes as she snapped her head up and looked around was almost worth having endured her company over dinner.
“If you were to criticize one course the most, which would it be, Lady Arabella?” Monty asked.
“The soup, of course. It was appallingly served.”
“How so?”
“That footman splashed some on my napkin.”
“An accident?”
