33

Love comes with hunger.

DIOGENES

Elodie’s eyes sparkled. “We’re to join the Humes for dinner?”

“Yes, but I am thankful we shall still have supper as usual in our rooms,” Blythe replied, more than a little flustered. Surely her discomfiture had more to do with the content of her father’s letters than the unexpected dinner invitation.

“Dinner is the main meal at Wedderburn, supper simply an afterthought.” Elodie began sorting through Blythe’s meager wardrobe. “You must look your best.”

“But this is a house of mourning.”

“For the family and servants, not guests.”

“Something subdued . . . My mint-green taffeta should suffice.”

“Milady, suffice is not enough. You must shine.”

“Shine is difficult for me,” Blythe said ruefully. Again, the thought of Ronan Hume piqued her. Might there be a match in the offing?

“I beg to differ. You are positively regal in sapphire silk. With your height and slim waist, your bountiful hair . . .” Elodie took a Spitalfields gown from the dressing room’s wardrobe. “This matches your pearls very nicely. All you lack is a crown to look like a queen . . . or a countess.”

“Elodie!” Indignation was in Blythe’s tone if not her spirit. “We’ve heard from Peg about Alison of Landreth Hall.”

“The future Countess Wedderburn? I do wonder, given Peg’s comment, if that honor might be bestowed upon someone else.”

What had Peg told them? “That one’s had her bonnet set for the young laird a long time, she has. Everyone in Berwickshire and beyond has them wed in their heads if not their hearts.”

Was their pairing not warmly received in the Borders?

Blythe stared at the exquisite gown spread across the bed, then sat down at the dressing table reluctantly. Elodie promptly removed her cap and all the pins before rearranging and repinning.

“’Tis a wonder you need no white paint or rouge and that you wear your hair unpowdered.” Elodie wound a bit of lace through Blythe’s upswept hair. “I do think a more natural look becomes you.”

Looking into the glass, Blythe recalled the beauty patches, or mouches, of France. Had the laird really called her complexion lovely? At least her skin bore no pocks or pimples, needing no artificial adornment. She had her mother to thank for that along with her deep-set eyes and long lashes, though she bore her father’s other features.

In half an hour, Elodie had worked wonders. The looking glass reflected an unsmiling if outwardly poised woman at her best.

Dinner was at hand. Blythe rose from the table and took a deep breath.

Lord, help Thou me.

Everard had given notice to Mrs. Candlish and the kitchen. The dining room was polished and aired. Half-guttered beeswax candles were promptly replaced by new ones. He’d read the riot act to his brothers to be on their best behavior. No belching, bad manners, coarse talk, or unwomanly topics.

He wondered if anyone would say a word.

As two o’ the clock neared, Everard stepped into the dining room to find all in readiness. Mrs. Candlish was carrying an enormous vase of freshly picked flowers for the centerpiece. “’Tis not every day Wedderburn Castle has a duke’s daughter for dinner,” she whispered, clearly delighted, as a footman entered the room with wine.

A duke’s daughter, aye. Eight years of staring at his mother’s empty place was at an end. He’d ask her ladyship to sit there, though he wouldn’t tell her whose chair it had been.

He went to a window facing the long drive. Storm clouds gathered, amassing over Landreth Hall. What would Alison say about their dining arrangement? Competitive by nature, she’d no doubt dislike it. But for the moment she was the last thing on his mind.

“Brother.” Ronan entered, his attire raising Everard’s brows. Though still mostly black clad, he wore a colorful waistcoat and had taken pains with all the rest.

“You look like a courtier,” Everard said, catching a hint of ambergris. “And you smell like one.”

Adjusting his stock, Ronan chuckled and eyed the elegantly appointed table with open appreciation. “I suppose you’ve lambasted Cook to serve us more than brose and kale.”

“You’ll soon find out.”

“But will her ladyship like it? The both of them, rather?”

“Why not ask them?”

“Surely Northumberland’s fare is not so different. A great deal of meat, fish, fresh fruits and vegetables.”

“A worthy conversation starter,” Everard said, eyes on the doorway.

Orin appeared next in a freshly ironed shirt, weskit, and breeches, his face expectant. “Are they still coming?”

“Why wouldn’t they?” Everard asked.

“Because they are lassies and we are used to dining alone,” he replied, smoothing his tied-back hair. “I hope they won’t find us boring.”

Boring? Few Humes fit that description.

“We’ll try to be so chivalrous they’ll want to dine with us again,” Ronan said as the twins appeared. “Though that might not be the case should Davie be here.”

“Nae,” Everard said. Davie could curdle fresh milk. Calysta was no better. “Where is Bernard?”

“Late, as usual,” Orin said, pulling at the back of his chair in a bid to sit down.

“Stay standing,” Everard told him. “You canna sit till the lassies do.”

Orin darted a glance at the door. “I hope you keep all my tutors away for good. I’ve learned more from Lady Blythe in a few days than they’ve taught me altogether since they first arrived.”

Ronan winked. “You’ve been beglamoured by her, then.”

Orin smiled. “When I am with her I forget I am learning.”

Everard felt a twinge. Orin’s ancient nurse had one foot in the grave. Mrs. Candlish was too busy for any mothering, and her station prevented it. But Lady Blythe was a different matter altogether. Once she left, what would the lack do to such a vulnerable, openhearted lad? And she might well leave immediately once she read her father’s latest letter.

“We shan’t hear any bad schoolroom reports of you, then,” Alistair said, coming to stand by Malcolm near the fireless hearth. “Nae caning or taking the lash.”

Orin laughed. “She is such a lady she would only tickle me.”

“She is indeed a lady,” Malcolm said. “I’d almost forgotten what the feminine sort was like.”

“But she is not such a lady she is afraid to go hawking with me,” Orin said. “She told me even Mary, Queen of Scots, was keen on hawking, as are some noblewomen in England.”

Alistair looked impressed. “Indeed. When are you going hawking?”

“On the morrow.”

There was a hush as two more footmen appeared carrying covered dishes. Not long after came their guests. Everard stood at the table’s head, eyes alighting on Blythe as she entered ahead of her maid.

“How gracious of you to invite us to your table,” she said with no hint of her discomfiture of before. Her colorful gown was finely made and snug to her slender shape, her fair hair arranged in a splendid display of curls framing her neck and shoulders, her hands folded at her waist.

“Welcome to our table,” Everard said as Orin played the gentleman and led her to her chair.

Bell was seated across from her, Ronan doing the honors. He then sat down beside her in his usual place, a felicitous arrangement from all appearances. A moment of uncertainty ensued, and then all bowed their heads. Everard uttered the timeworn prayer of his father, wondering what sort of blessing Catholics gave.

“Our most merciful Faither, we give Thee humble thanks for Thy bounty, beseeching Thee to continue Thy lovingkindness unto us, that our land may yield her fruits of increase, to Thy glory and our comfort. Through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.”

The footmen removed the covers on a dozen silver dishes. To Everard’s right, Blythe took his cue as a white soup was served. He hoped the food was still warm, given the long haul from the castle’s kitchen.

Blythe’s smile hadn’t dimmed. She was admiring the cut flowers, her gaze sweeping the unfamiliar room. She sampled the pigeon, ate all her veal cutlet, made much of the garden’s asparagus and glazed carrots, and sipped her madeira with an ease that surprised him, not at all undone by his company, or so it seemed.

“Your new cook has outdone himself,” she said to him as he finished his meal. “Everything is delicious, though I was expecting neeps and tatties and the like. And I am keen to try your haggis.”

Smiling, Ronan lifted his glass in a sort of toast. “To our esteemed guest, who is as brave as she is beautiful.”

Blythe pinked. “More brave than beautiful, I assure you.”

“Is haggis not eaten in England?” Alistair asked.

Bell’s tight smile indicated it was not, at least at their Northumberland table.

“Rich, savory, nourishing,” Malcolm said. “An infinitely agreeable dish.”

“’Tis my favorite pudding,” Orin said with more gusto than usual, as if savoring his meal as much as the company. “I shall have Cook make it for you if you promise to sup with us again.”

Blythe smiled at him from across the table. “How can I refuse?”

“Well, now is the time, as I do not think you’ll think well of sheep’s offal,” Bernard said in his honest, self-effacing way. “Our mither abhorred it.”

Blythe laughed, the sound so charming amid so much masculinity that Everard smiled. “I may well agree with your beloved countess,” she said. “But I must try it.”

Dessert appeared, a pyramid of fresh fruit. Exclaiming in delight, Blythe took a large portion and poured custard atop it. “’Tis like the fruiterers in France. A happy memory.”

“A happy memory, indeed.” Bell made much of it also as the dessert dwindled. “My father kept a lovely orchard at our home on the outskirts of Haltwhistle.”

Everard noticed Blythe turn toward her in surprise. Did Bell rarely speak of her past?

Ronan looked out the window as if judging the weather, then in low tones asked, “Would you care to take a turn with me in the gardens, Miss Bell, before the rain?”

A slight pause made Everard tense. Ronan wasted no time with courting. Flushing, Bell glanced at her mistress. Blythe smiled encouragingly even as thunderheads loomed.