“I do,” Nicholas said distantly. He wanted to remind his grandfather that he wasn’t a child and didn’t need him to speak for him. He squared his shoulders, turning his back pointedly on Grandfather.
“Riding! Now, that’s a manly pursuit. Not so, Bernadette?” Lady Rothendale gushed, turning to her daughter.
“Yes.”
Her mumbled reply resembled his own and Nicholas felt a stirring of compassion in his heart. Maybe she wasn’t the empty-headed socialite he imagined her to be. She hadn’t seemed thatway on the night at the ball. She had seemed, as she did now, as awkward as he felt. She had not seemed at home at the ball, and she was also being spoken for by her family, just as he was.
He cleared his throat. “Do you ride?” he managed to ask her.
Her stare, eyes round and wide with surprise, twisted his heart just as it had when he’d first seen her in the ballroom. She looked directly at him; not at the scar, not gaping in shock. He felt his heart flutter.
“No. Bernadette does not ride. I think it is unseemly for a lady. Not so, Bernadette?” Lady Rothendale interrupted, answering on behalf of her daughter.
“Yes, Mama.”
Nicholas felt his stomach twist queasily. Either Miss Rowland was more than a silly socialite, or she wasn’t, but he was not likely to find out if her mother kept on speaking for her. And he desperately wanted to know. He cleared his throat again, trying to rack his brains for another topic of conversation, though lack of practice made it difficult. He’d never had the chance to converse much at balls because women tended to drift off across the ballroom, and even if they did not, he didn’t have the courage to approach them.
Lord Rothendale appeared beside him, gesturing him to a chair.
“Sit down, my lord. It’s an honour to have you here. And you, Lord Lockwood! Please, take a seat. You are our most honoured guests.”
Nicholas swallowed hard. Flattery was something that confused him utterly, as well as making him deeply uncomfortable. He was unused to it. He glanced at Grandfather, but he was settling into the chair the butler pulled out for him and he didn’t seem to have noticed Lord Rothendale’s comments.
“Fine. Fine house you have here,” Grandfather murmured offhandedly as he sat down.
“Thank you, my lord. It’s just a modest abode,” Lady Rothendale murmured.
Nicholas shut his eyes. If he let annoyance at their flattery and insincerity overwhelm him, he was sure he’d say something rude. He didn’t want to. Miss Rowland would be shocked, and he didn’t want that.
Miss Rowland took a seat across the table from him. His stomach twisted with nerves.
Clearly, they were trying to force the two of them to converse.
Nicholas cleared his throat, mouth parched suddenly as if he’d swallowed a slice of lemon. She looked back at him, those pretty eyes big and startled.
He took a breath, reminding himself that he had to try.
“Do you always eat dinner at this time?” he asked her, glad that the sound of Lord Rothendale speaking to Grandfather distracted the others at the table.
“No,” she murmured.
Nicholas tensed. He had tried his best to start a conversation, and she wasn’t being helpful. He looked around and tried to think of something else to say.
“Do you prefer town, or the country?” he asked her after a moment.
She blinked, staring at him in apparent shock. After a second, she wet her lips, looking down at her plate. “Um...the country,” she whispered. “I much prefer the countryside to town.”
Nicholas swallowed hard. He had done his best. She was just like the other ladies at balls and parties. All she was doing was politely ignoring him. A dark mix of sorrow and anger grew inside him. He didn’t want to be here; an object of horror for a shallow young lady.
“Shall I serve the soup, my lord?” the butler asked Lord Rothendale quietly.
“Yes. Please.” Lord Rothendale sounded tense; impatient.
Nicholas shut his eyes for a moment, ready to endure the dinner.
Grandfather did most of the talking. He chatted about the East India company, boring everyone at the table, even, Nicholas thought, Lord Rothendale, though the baron kept up the conversation quite a while.
“Shall we retire to the drawing room after dinner?” Lady Rothendale asked in a brittle voice as the dessert was served. It was syllabub, a dessert Nicholas was not especially keen on, but he couldn’t taste it anyway. He ate mechanically, as he had the whole dinner. Opposite him, Miss Rowland took small, nervous mouthfuls, eyeing him sometimes like a mouse eyes a cat. He winced.
