Page 33 of The MacGregor's Lady
“I have boyhood recollections, the same as any other man, though mine are of the Canadian wilderness. It’s beautiful there, but… absolutely uncompromising. Maybe a little like you.”
An attempt to tease, but as with so many of Balfour’s sallies, a compliment lurked at the edge of the observation. “How old were you when you left?”
“Eleven summers.” He paused by Hannah’s chair, set to the right of his. “Eleven years old.”
He seated her without saying more, but then he surprised her. “Your turn to say the blessing, Miss Hannah.”
Her turn? He’d said a perfunctory word or two over the food at every evening meal, and she’d seen him close his eyes for a moment before tucking into his food on other occasions. Unlike many men of Hannah’s acquaintance, he wasn’t heedless of his spirituality.
Neither was she. Hannah spread her napkin on her lap and cast around for inspiration. None arrived, the habit in Boston being for Step-papa to blather on until the soup was cold. Hannah bowed her head and thought of bread and butter consumed under a lean-to.
“For what we are about to receive, for safe havens, and for loved ones even when we can’t be with them, we are grateful. Amen.”
He quietly echoed her amen, and the ordeal of yet another meal in the Earl of Balfour’s handsome, charming, and all too perceptive company began.
Seven
Asher had the knack of putting his guest off merely by drawing breath, which was fortunate.
He was coming to like looking at Hannah Lynn Cooper too much, to enjoy watching the way lamplight played with the red-and-gold highlights in her hair. He liked to feel her hand slipping into his, liked to think she appreciated that he would not let her fall.
He liked to ponder the quality of her silences as she ambled through the park with him, liked to provoke her into smiling despite herself.
“Might I have the butter, Miss Hannah?”
She put the little silver dish by his elbow. “You always start your meal with buttered bread.”
He hadn’t realized that about himself. “A man can do without some thin soup, while bread and butter will sustain life. Wine, Miss Hannah?”
“Please.”
“You’re learning to drink it, I gather.”
“I’m learning that water in London is not like water at home. I can see why tea is the mandatory beverage here.”
Ale was probably consumed in greater quantity than tea. He didn’t point that out because she was about to make another blunt pronouncement. “And why is tea mandatory?”
“Because the water in London is undrinkable in its plain state.”
True enough. “You must not say as much in public.”
She sat back and remained silent while the soup course was removed. Asher waved the footmen off, as he usually did. The meal was sitting on the table in plain sight in chafing dishes, and he and his guest were more than capable of feeding themselves.
“I will not embarrass you, sir.” Her admission was grudging, offered more in hope than confidence, though her manners were impeccable.
“You will not cause embarrassment purposely, and yet I suspect you will not take, though it won’t be entirely your doing, and I doubt it will matter to you. I like this about you, Hannah Cooper, even as I wish you might accept the smoother path of compromise and accommodation. I’m hoping I don’t embarrass you either.”
Because compromise and accommodation also weren’t in his nature.
She stopped mid-reach toward her wine. “Does this have to do with that comment about the longhouse?”
Upon consideration, he found that yes, it did. “I am not the ideal escort for a young lady seeking to make a fine impression on Polite Society. I suspect my uncle offered my services as a way to punish me more than a way to see you effectively introduced.”
“I’m a punishment?”
“Don’t sound so pleased.”
She smiled, a gorgeous, mischievous grin that suggested if she’d wanted to, if she’d had the least inclination, she’d do well enough among the London bachelors. “Tell me about the longhouse and why you are such a sorry excuse for an escort.”
