The Conqueror's Dilemma (25 page)

Melinda blushed. ‘Well, but I
don’t feel about him as you do. Perhaps I am not in love. I like him very well,
more than any other.’

The anxious look in her eyes
melted Tiffany’s heart and she regretted having said so much. She must mend it
if she could.

‘Let us see. Would it trouble you
if he were to flirt with another female?’

Melinda burst into laughter.
‘Certainly it would. But he won’t, for he has shown himself very much my
cavalier—if only he would speak of it.’

‘What if he were to stop being
your cavalier? Would it upset you?’

The pretty mouth pouted, and
Melinda appeared to consider the question. ‘I think it would, yes.’

Tiffany smiled. ‘Then I dare say
you are in love, but it has not yet been tested. Who is he, may I know?’

The brown eyes twinkled. ‘I
thought perhaps you did know. It is Jeremy Brundish.’

Shocked dismay flashed through
Tiffany. The wrong answer altogether. And particularly unwelcome, since it now
fell to her to apprise Ariadne of her brother’s inevitable disappointment. This
day was proving a singularly depressing start to her visit. She began to wish
she had not consented to come.

If Tiffany had thought the worst of the day behind her, she
realised her mistake immediately upon taking her seat at the dinner table. With
acute misgiving, she stared at the array of silver cutlery marking the place to
which she had been assigned. She dared say there were a dozen different items
from which she must select one or more specifically intended for each separate dish.
Her mind raced through the instruction Eva had attempted at the outset of her
Season, but it was quickly evident that Lady Drumbeg’s board had never boasted
a need for such a variety of implements. For all her vaunted ambition, she had
not the requisite knowledge to pass on.

Glancing around the table at the
guests engaged in the business of taking their seats, she hunted for Ariadne.
To Tiffany’s torment, she saw her only hope of salvation was seated several
chairs away, and on the other side of the lengthy dining table. If she had
learned nothing else to equip her for this situation, she at least knew she
must not on any account talk across the table. She might converse only with the
persons seated either side. She had not even taken in which of the guests she
was placed between. This error was more easily remedied than those she was
convinced she was about to make with the cutlery.

She found to her right the
gentleman who had led her in to dinner, a Mr Northwick, who had won her in
tonight’s lottery. Ariadne having had the forethought to let her know that, in
the country, the gentlemen drew lots rather than holding to strict precedence
in order that the same couples did not go down together every night, Tiffany
had been forewarned. For several hideous minutes, while the lottery took place
in an atmosphere of general bonhomie and hilarity, she had dreaded chance might
throw her on the Conqueror’s arm. When it did not, she was irritated to find
her uppermost emotion to be disappointment rather than relief, and had taken
refuge in being particularly charming to Mr Northwick.

He was not of the house party,
but a neighbour invited for the evening, as it turned out. Tiffany found him
taciturn, and since he must be fifty if he was a day, she was far too shy of him
to dare to ask for his assistance.

Looking to her left, she
discovered none other than the young gentleman for whom Melinda had expressed
her preference. Tiffany had been presented to Mr Jeremy Brundish earlier in the
day, and had taken the opportunity to examine him critically. He was certainly
young, of slight build, and with the sort of good looks Tiffany found florid
rather than handsome.

It was evident there could be no applying
to him in her difficulty, however, because it was obvious Jeremy Brundish had
no interest but in the beauty just taking her chair on the other side of the
table. Glancing across at Melinda’s lovely countenance, Tiffany took in that
she had drawn Hector to one side, and—with a swoop at her stomach—the Conqueror
on the other. This set him just off Tiffany’s sight line, for he was only one
place away.

Dismay engulfed her, and she
looked away before he could notice her position. There was only one thing to be
done. She touched the arm of the older man to her right.

‘Are you a frequent visitor, Mr
Northwick?’

Her neighbour turned his head.
‘Eh?’

‘Do you visit here often?’
repeated Tiffany, desperate to keep his attention. ‘You live so close, after
all.’

Mr Northwick passed a hand over
one of the silver wings gracing his otherwise dark hair. ‘Not often. Well, only
since my wife died.’

Tiffany could have cursed. Trust
her to light upon the matter most likely to cause embarrassment. ‘Oh, I am so
sorry. I did not know.’

‘How should you?’

‘No, of course. I mean, was it
long—? No, I will not ask you that.’

‘How long ago? More than two
years.’ His rather crumpled features lightened in a brief smile. ‘Our hostess,
I believe, has taken the notion I should by now be hanging out for a second
wife.’

‘Has she? And are you?’ Realising
what she had said, Tiffany made haste to retrieve the slip. ‘I mean—oh, dear,
do forgive me. I am unused to this sort of conversation.’

‘So am I,’ he said kindly, and
Tiffany’s jumping nerves steadied a little. ‘But you may make yourself easy. I
am come for the entertainment, not to ogle young ladies in the hope of making
myself acceptable.’

She let out an involuntary laugh,
and was immediately aware of the Conqueror turning to look at her. Tiffany
could not stop herself from glancing round. For the briefest instant, she
caught his eye before she dragged her own gaze down. The breath fluttered in
her throat and she had all to do to rationalise herself into calm.

There could be nothing in that
fleeting look. He had repudiated her in no uncertain terms. She had heard him
herself. He was pledged to Lady Yelverton’s whim, anyone could gauge that. A
frantic hunt around the table discovered the Queen of Society, magnificent in
purple, seated at the top of the table at her host’s right hand, as was to be
expected. Tiffany could not withstand a secret satisfaction that even William
the Conqueror was not permitted to violate the stricter rules of precedence.

Not that it was any concern of
hers. Her immediate function was obvious. Ariadne had delegated to her the job
of engaging the interest of Jeremy Brundish. Tiffany had protested.

‘You cannot suppose me capable of
luring him away from Melinda.’

‘Not that, silly child. You said
yourself Melinda is unsure of her affections. It will be an excellent test of
them if you were to flirt with him a little.’

Tiffany had sighed. ‘Well, I will
try, though I am wholly unversed in that art. Nor do I see what good it will
do.’

Ariadne’s mischief had deepened.
‘You never know. In any event, it is useless to attempt to push her into
Hector’s orbit until we are assured of her feelings one way or the other.’

A point of view with which it was
difficult to argue. Chance having thrown her in the way of the young man, it
behoved her to make an attempt to carry out Ariadne’s wishes. If, that was, she
could struggle through the difficult business of eating without disgracing
herself.

By this time, the servants had
begun to dispense the first course. A quantity of dishes were being set down
between the guests, and Tiffany waited, in growing trepidation, to be served by
one or other of the gentlemen flanking her. Meanwhile, she eyed the various
offerings, anxiously trying to identify them so she might recall which it was
appropriate for her to accept.

Before she well knew what was
happening, she was being pressed with soup by Mr Northwick and oysters by
Brundish—apparently ready to do his duty despite being deprived of Melinda’s
company. Hesitating, she eyed the oysters, which, in a seafaring family, she
had known and enjoyed from a child. But were oysters not one of the foods it
was considered unladylike to eat? Soup, yes, but it looked to be onion, which
she detested.

In a panic of indecision, she
looked across at Melinda, and with relief saw her accepting a helping of
oysters from the hand of Lord Kilbride.

‘Thank you, I will take the
oysters, Mr Brundish. No soup, I thank you, Mr Northwick.’

But no sooner were the oysters on
her plate than Tiffany was beset by doubt. The whole family would relish a dish
of the shellfish at home in Bridlington Key, but it struck her with blinding
certainty that it would be thought disgustingly uncouth in this milieu to suck
the oysters out of their shells. How else were they to be eaten?

Agonised, Tiffany pored over the
various utensils at her disposal, wishing the correct ones would jump magically
up from the table and into her hand. A faint cough reached her ears, with that
particular inflection within it of someone trying to attract attention.

Tiffany sought its source, and
instantly noted Will flick a glance in her direction and then down to his
hands. With his left fingers he was holding an oyster shell steady, and as she
watched, he dug into the shell with a serviceable fork he was holding and gently
extracted the oyster. When he had done, he gave Tiffany another swift look and
then popped the oyster whole into his mouth.

All unflattering thoughts she had
harboured about him were swallowed up by a flood of gratitude. The only notion
in her head was that Will had saved her—the same kind and sympathetic Will she
had known at first, who had seen her peril at the hands of Lady Yelverton and
come at once to her rescue. Her eyes, hunting for the similar fork to the one
he had used, were misted, but she found it.

Triumphant, she followed his
silent instruction and began to eat, taking the utmost care as she pulled a
recalcitrant oyster from its shell that she did not spray her surroundings with
its juices. It was a tricky operation and she was glad Jeremy Brundish had
placed only three of the things on her plate. They were soon disposed of, and a
servant whisked away the little platter and set another in its place.

Mr Northwick offered her fish. Tiffany
threw a surreptitious questioning look at Will, who gave an infinitesimal nod,
and served himself with the same thing. Tiffany accepted the fish. This time
she did not trouble herself to seek among her cutlery, but instantly watched to
see how her mentor managed. A crust of bread? Oh, merely to serve in place of a
knife to ease the pieces onto the fork. Tiffany found the fork and also Mr
Northwick’s hand, offering the bread.

She thanked him, and was
discomfited to see a faintly amused look in his face. Had she been too avid in
her anxiety to learn from Will? She must try to be more discreet.

But as the long dinner wore on,
her confidence grew, and she felt able to converse with Mr Northwick, even as
she kept her eye upon the Conqueror for guidance at need. She was able to fend
for herself with the familiar dishes of poultry, pasties and a fricassee, at
which point she recalled her mission with regard to Jeremy Brundish. He had
abandoned her after the oysters, devoting himself to an elderly matron on his
other side. Tiffany determined to draw his attention the instant he turned his
interest to his own plate.

‘Are you a frequent visitor, Mr
Brundish?’ she asked him, falling back upon her previously used ploy.

He looked round. ‘Here?’

Tiffany laughed. ‘Obviously.’

He blinked, and looked at her in
a searching way, as if he had only just noticed her. ‘Depends what you call
frequent.’

‘Well, you have been before, I
take it?’

‘Frequently.’

Tiffany opened her eyes at him,
and realising what he had said, he laughed. A faint flush suffused his cheek,
which Tiffany privately considered rather attractive.

‘That appears to settle the
point.’ She gave him a friendly smile. ‘Now I shall have to think of some other
topic to begin upon, shan’t I?’

Mr Brundish did not respond, but
continued to stare at her, surprise in his face. Tiffany frowned.

‘What is the matter? Have I said
anything amiss?’

He shook his head. ‘No, not at
all. It was only how you looked. I don’t remember seeing anyone with so much
mischief in their eyes.’

It was Tiffany’s turn to blush.
‘I intended none. I am sorry if—’

‘No, don’t apologise,’ he said
quickly, setting down his fork and throwing out a hand. ‘It’s refreshing. I
like it.’

An eerie prickling attacked
Tiffany. Involuntarily, she turned, and discovered the Conqueror’s measured
gaze looking from her to Brundish and back again. Heat suffused her, and she
brought her attention to bear on the fresh empty plate in front of her.

‘Asparagus?’

It was Mr Brundish this time.
Looking quickly to her right, she saw Mr Northwick was already serving himself
from a dish of the green spears. As of instinct, Tiffany’s glance went to Will
again. For an instant she thought he was going to refuse to help her, for he
neither looked up from his plate nor gave any other sign.

To her consternation, she
discovered Jeremy Brundish had not waited for her consent, but was about to
ladle several spears of the vegetable onto her plate. A movement caught her eye
across the table, and she cast a glance at Will. He had one finger at his lip,
as if he brushed at a crumb, but at the same time he contrived to shift his
head slightly to one side in a negative gesture. Relieved, Tiffany put out her
hand.

‘No, I thank you.’

In a moment she understood why
Will had stopped her. To her right, Mr Northwick was using his fingers to eat
the asparagus, his head bent low as melted butter seeped down his hand and
dripped to the plate. Relief flooded Tiffany. How mortifying if she had soiled
her white gown, which she was certain to have done. She could not help throwing
a grateful look across the table. Did that quirk at Will’s lips betoken
amusement? Or was it an infinitesimal smile? Warmth spread within her bosom,
and she was assailed by a vexing desire to weep.