Page 14 of The Lyon and the Unicorn
“Let me, miss,” he said, as the laughter increased, and Clara righted herself, her cheeks flaming.
“My dear Miss Martingale, how you amuse!” Miss Peacock said. “It’s not done for ladies to retrieve fallen objects—that’s for servants and the lower classes. But we should make allowances with your being new to Society. Now, perhaps you might show us what to do next. Ought you use the main-course knife for your bread?”
Why did Miss Peacock continue to torment her? She was like the cat in the kitchens at Pittchester Castle when it had caughta mouse, toying with its prey as if it relished the creature’s suffering—at least until the cook shooed it away with a broom.
But there was no cook to shoo Miss Peacock away.
Clara glanced about. Ought she take the butter knife from one of the empty spaces next to her? No—the look of relish in Miss Peacock’s eyes told her that it was best to remain still and go hungry.
As if in protest, Clara’s stomach growled again.
Then a deep male voice spoke.
“Allow me.”
Clara looked up, and her belly flipped as she saw a pair of dark-green eyes focused on her.
He gestured to the empty seat. “May I?”
She nodded, and he sat, the chair creaking beneath his huge frame. He reached for his butter knife and handed it to her.
“Very charitable, I’m sure, Mr. McTavish,” Miss Peacock said. “But Miss Martingale doesn’t appear to be hungry.”
“Well,Iam,” he said.
He reached toward the plate in the center of the table and picked up a chicken thigh with his hands.
Miss Peacock gasped as he tore a piece of meat off the bone with his teeth. He continued to eat, while the remainder of the table stared, then he placed the bone on his side plate.
“Delicious,” he said. “Food is best eaten with fingers to enjoy it to the full. What say ye, Miss Martingale?”
“I…” Clara hesitated, aware of Miss Peacock’s gaze on her.
“It’s more considerate, also,” he continued, picking up another piece. “I fail to see why we should create extra work for the servants by dirtying cutlery when our fingers were made for just such a purpose. Miss Martingale, ye must try this chicken.”
He offered the piece to her and winked.
Clara took it, then nibbled at the chicken.
“There’s a flaw in your argument, Mr. McTavish,” Miss Peacock said, when Clara had finished the chicken and set the bone aside. “Fingers, as well as forks, need to be cleaned.”
“We can do that ourselves, Miss Peacock.” He licked his fingers, running the tip of his tongue along the length, before slipping them inside his mouth. His eyes sparkled with pleasure as he fixed his emerald gaze on Clara, and she shifted her position as a wicked heat coursed through her. “Miss Martingale will ye join me?” he said, his voice a low rasp.
Clara glanced across the dining room to where her parents sat with Lady Cholmondeley, but they were deep in conversation. Encouraged by her companion’s smile, she slipped her fingers into her mouth.
“Oh, that’sgood, Miss Martingale,” he said.
“Idon’t think so,” Miss Peacock huffed.
Miss Goodchild giggled and reached for a piece of chicken.
“Marion!” Miss Peacock said. “Would you indulge in the habits of urchins?”
“You must admit it’s easier, Louise,” Miss Goodchild said.
Miss Peacock picked up the serving spoons. She scooped up a piece of chicken, which slipped and fell onto the table.
Clara’s companion chuckled. “Miss Peacock is in need of a little more practice at the dinner table.”
