Page 63 of Hearts of Briarwall

Spencer bit his cheek, and Lydia stifled a snort.

“What was that?” Andrew said.

Lydia brightened. “Nothing. Mrs. Piedmont, I believe you like the chicken and oysters. Cook has prepared it for tonight’s main course.”

And with that, Lydia deftly brought the conversation back to ease and comfort for everyone. Spencer couldn’t help noticing the pride in Sir Lawrence’s eye as he watched Lydia converse with his mother, nor the way he’d patted her hand in gratitude.

He swallowed tightly, having lost his appetite for dinner. Nevertheless, a few moments later, he found himself escorting Violet into the dining room.

“She doesn’t suspect, you know.”

“I beg your pardon?” He spoke low, matching her whisper.

“She doesn’t know of Andrew’s intentions for her and Sir Lawrence.”

He clenched his teeth and exhaled, not wanting to speak of this, but unable to ignore her. “Butyouknow,” he observed.

“We—my friends and I—have only just begun to suspect. But his attentions tonight ...” She watched him sidelong. “She has no idea. I thought you should know.”

“Why?” he asked, knowing full well why, but he was curious to hear what Violet would say.

She paused as they entered the dining room and, as the others found their seats, she faced him.

He blanched under her scrutiny, pulling at his collar.

“Because, Spencer, I do not wish you to believe she plays games when it comes to people. She may follow us girls on our little dares, and she pays her guests their due attention”—he followed the flick of her gaze to see Lydia smiling up at Sir Lawrence as he pushed in her chair for her—“but she is genuine.”

He turned back to her. “Genuine,” he repeated.

She nodded. “Surely you learned this after the greatclock key hunt?”

He had. He’d been dazzled by it. “Well,” he said, clearing his throat. “How fortunate for Sir Lawrence, then.”

Her brows lowered in confusion. “I was mistaken about you.”

He held out his hand toward her chair, eager to be done with this conversation. “How so?”

“I was under the impression that you don’t play games, either.”

“Indeed,” he said, causing her to pause. “I cannot even afford to consider the invitation.”

She scrutinized him further. “Some would argue that love does not invite. It commands.”

“Love?” he asked, a bit too loudly. All eyes turned on him, and he blanched.

Violet glanced between him and the other diners, and, ironically, his gaze was forced to Lydia’s, whose eyes were wide.

Violet smiled and addressed the room. “We were speaking of foreign delicacies. Mr. Hayes is shocked that I claim a love for haggis.”

Sir Lawrence made a baffled face. “As am I.Haggis?”

The room erupted in a debate over haggis, and before Spencer could take in what had transpired, he’d seated Miss Whittemore, taken his own chair, and dared another glance at Lydia.

She had moved her gaze from Violet, who was entirely too focused on the conversation at hand, and transferred it to him, searching and steady. He should have been able to breathe with the redirection of subject, but he could not seem to get enough air into his lungs with Lydia’s dark eyes boring into his. She was lovely, compelling, and, yes, fearsome.

Love.

He’d known her all but a week. Yet just that morning he’d claimed to have known her most of her life. Itfeltas if he’d known her that long, and yet, every moment with her was new.

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