Page 39 of The Lyon Whisperer
He shook his head, but one corner of his mouth hitched upward. “You’re romanticizing.”
“What of…let me see…what is the word?” She cocked her head and squinted her eyes trying to conjure it. “Establishing your place in the pecking order. Fagging? I imagine that would be uncomfortable.”
His brows arched. “Where on earth did you pick up that word?”
She’d read about it, of course, in a tract on systematic harassment in educational settings which Lady Harriet, the matriarch of the Ladies’ Literary Society, had unearthed for them. “I can’t recall.”
“Hmm.”
“Well? How about it?”
He plucked at the grass with his strong, yet elegant fingers and turned his gaze to the rushing river below. “Early on…It doesn’t signify.”
“You can’t leave me burning with curiosity, Chase.”
He shrugged. “Mostly no one tangled with me, to be honest. There was one among the crowd who generally ruled the rest—though he only attempted his nonsense with me once—during Eton days, at any rate.”
She wanted to ask for details, but he executed a swift change of subject.
“I left the list of party invitations I want you to accept with Mr. Oliver. There’s one as early as next week.” He paused as if considering his next words. “There’s something else I wished to mention.”
“Yes?”
“I need to pay a visit to Copsham. I thought you might like to join me. It always pleases the villagers to meet their lord and lady, and perhaps we can make a short holiday of it. There’s a rather fine inn where we can stay.”
“I’d like that very much. When shall we leave?”
“Tomorrow.”
Chapter Nine
Chase had stayedonce before at the King George Inn, when he’d paid a visit to Copsham to meet with—and replace—the overseer of the Copsham timber mill. He was pleased to see the inn was as well-appointed as his memory held.
Amelia entered the establishment all smiles, sunshine, and roses for the staff. In return, they bent over backwards trying to please her. It was a common dynamic where Amelia was concerned, he was coming to realize.
Then the innkeeper showed them to their suite.
While the man pointed out the chamber’s many features, provided helpful tips concerning mealtimes, and stoked the fires in the two hearths, Chase kept a surreptitious eye on his wife.
She wandered the spacious antechamber, arms linked behind her back, every bit the lady of the manor. She nodded here and there, acknowledging the innkeeper’s steady flow of information. She glanced out the lone window, perused the books in the small bookshelf.
She flicked the briefest glance through the open double doors adjoining the antechamber with the bedchamber. The sole, large, four-post bed stood front and center.
She gave no reaction at all to seeing only one bed in their luxurious suite.
“If there’s nothing else, m’lord, m’lady?”
“There is one thing,” Chase said, his gaze shifting to meet Amelia’s. “Lady Culver and I would like to dine privately tonight, in our chamber.”
Her expression did not alter, but her cheeks stained a delicate pink.
He took a perverse satisfaction in seeing the reaction she had been unable to mask in her customary manner. Obviously the idea of spending the evening sequestered with him affected her. But how, exactly?
Oblivious to the silent interchange, the innkeeper promised to have a very fine meal delivered promptly at eight and let himself out, leaving Chase and Amelia blessedly alone.
A blessing which could prove torturous should the evening not unfold the way he hoped.
“I must leave you for a few hours to meet with the mill overseer. I want to gather preliminary information before digging deeper tomorrow at the fire sights. Perhaps you can visit the nearby shops in my absence. I’m sure the shopkeepers will be delighted to show the future Viscountess of Culver their wares.”
