Page 8 of Scales and Sensibility
She hadknownthis couldn’t be as easy as it seemed, hadn’t she? She had certainly known better than to ever step into a strange gentleman’s carriage. And yet...
Mr. Hawkins closed his strong arms around her and swung her easily to the ground, sending a burst of entirely inappropriate heat throughout her mud-covered body. “Oh, you must at least have heard of her. Her father is a landowner of renown in this county, I’ve been told. And she is said to be unforgettable!”
He stepped back the moment that her feet touched the ground, lowering his arms with perfect courtesy to his sides and grinning his lopsided grin down at her. Even his noxiously slimed waistcoat couldn’t make him look unappealing.
It was most unjust and disagreeable.
“Do tell me.” Elinor swallowed. “What is her name?”
Therewereseveral young ladies in the neighborhood, after all. Only the cruellest, most unjust hand of Fate could possibly—
“Penelope Hathergill,” said her rescuer. “Haveyou met? Is she as beautiful as they say?”
Elinor closed her eyes against his smile.
Fate was never on her side.
Chapter 4
There was only one stroke of luck for which Elinor could be thankful that evening as she stepped into the private room that had been reserved for their supper, carrying an alert and curious Sir Jessamyn on her shoulder.
She hadn’t recognized any of the men in the crowded front room of The Lion’s Head when she, Mr. Hawkins, and Mr. Aubrey had first arrived…which meant that the Singhs, who owned the bustling inn, had cheerfully accepted her identity as Mr. Hawkins’s sister, rather than Sir John Hathergill’s runaway niece.
Unfortunately, she still couldn’t quite escape her relatives.
“So,” Mr. Hawkins said, as he held out a chair for her at the weathered old wooden dining table, “you were remarkably cagey in our earlier conversation. Do I take it that youareacquainted with my future fiancée, Miss Tregarth?”
“Ah…” Elinor glanced around the room as she sat, hunting for inspiration.
Mr. Aubrey was immersed in a thick book, cheerfully oblivious to her entrance and their conversation; he had already scattered two sheets of scribbled-upon notepaper across his rice-covered supper plate and was rapidly jotting down notes on a third sheet now with a quill pen that spattered, spreading spots of black ink. A second book sat ready at his elbow, near the three thick candles that lit his studies.
A crystal goblet of wine on the oak sideboard behind him glinted darkly in the fading light from the narrow, grated windows, while two different curries—one chicken and one lentil—steamed pleasant clouds of spice into the air and large paintings of mountain scenes hung, shadowed, about the room.
As Elinor couldn’t think of any way to step into any of those paintings to escape the topic at hand, she sighed and gave up, bending her head to start slicing the plain chicken breast that had been cooked for Sir Jessamyn. “‘Future fiancée,’ Mr. Hawkins? I’m not sure I’ve heard that term used before.”
“Oh, she doesn’t know it yet,” he said cheerfully. “But she will soon.”
“I suppose she’d have to,” Elinor agreed, “if you are actually to be married.” She fed Sir Jessamyn a bite of chicken, and he chirped happily, leaning over her shoulder towards the plate.
“Exactly.” Mr. Hawkins poured three glasses of wine and set one of them firmly on top of his friend’s second book. “Now for pity’s sake, Aubrey, don’t forget this is here and knock it over again, all right? It’s actually a good brew this time—and you’re paying a princely sum for it!”
“Mmm-hmm.” Mr. Aubrey did not look up. “It’s measurements that go wrong every time with these people! Why don’t they ever take the time tothink?” Still muttering to himself, he jotted a new round of angry notes.
Mr. Hawkins sighed and handed Elinor her glass. “You see, Miss Tregarth, you are the only one I can ask for assistance now. It’s not that Aubrey isn’t willing to help—he’s already done a great deal by coming out of his way to drop me off here, as you see—but as far as I can tell, he’s been dragon-obsessed ever since he was born. He has no helpful romantic experiences to share.”
“Since he was born?” Elinor set down her glass, seizing upon the distraction. “But I thought—that is,Inever even heard of real dragons until a few years ago. Until then, I thought they were a myth. Didn’t everyone?”
She raised an apologetic hand to stroke Sir Jessamyn’s warm, un-mythical back. He nudged her fingers aside, pointing his snout meaningfully down at the neglected chicken breast.
“Oh, I certainly did.” Mr. Hawkins nodded as he sat down across from her. “But even before those Navy chaps down in South America started writing back home about them, Aubrey already had it in his head that there was more to it than mere legends. He read through all the stories in his grandfather’s library and started adding things up, apparently. And he’s not the only one—by the time that first dragon landed back in England, there was a whole slew of obsessive scholars all ready to start arguing at the top of their lungs over its fine points, never mind the fact they’d never seen any before outside of fairy tale illustrations.”
“Fairy tales, Hawkins?!” Mr. Aubrey looked up for the first time since Elinor had walked into the room. “Really, must you insult my hearing in that way? Haven’t I explained to you often enough how insidious that outmoded and offensive terminology is, when discussing the matter of dragons?”
“Beg pardon, old chap.” Mr. Hawkins scooped up a large portion of curry and dropped it onto his friend’s rice-covered plate, shifting the sheets of notepaper out of the way just in time. “Here, take at least one bite before it goes cold.” He handed Mr. Aubrey a spoon.
His friend took it, still glowering. “If people are going to spout any more gibberish aboutfairy talesin my presence…”
“I do beg your pardon, Mr. Aubrey,” Elinor said, “but isn’t that how most people first heard of dragons? I know my sisters and I—”
