And before he could do anything about it, she took the last butter-cake.
She ate it in two bites.
There was a trace of icing on her upper lip when she was done, and Anthony watched, fascinated, as delicately she licked it away with the tip of her tongue.
She could have used a napkin, of course, yet he found himself rather glad she hadn’t.
All the icing was gone from that nicely shaped upper lip, the very color of—well, in point of fact, the glorious pink color of a Provins rose in full bloom.
Rather dreamily Anthony wondered if she would lick her lip again, just to be sure.
And Miss Kent, striking like an adder, made her next move, which was to take two of the three remaining York biscuits.
Anthony snapped to attention. Even in his indignation, however, he had to grudgingly admire her rapacious boldness. But he wasn’t going to let himself be blinded by admiration.
He reached out to take the last biscuit.
This he ate with marked efficiency, but here again, Miss Kent beat him all to flinders. Never had he seen someone eat biscuits so rapidly while at the same time managing to look so cool and prim. It was an art form, one which Miss Kent had clearly taken to its highest level.
Appreciation notwithstanding, Anthony was aware of a certain tension humming within him.
For there was one sandwich left.
He looked at it, and then at Miss Kent. She was looking at him, and then, as if casually, dropped her gaze to the table between them.
“I say,” he said, cunningly, “fine weather we’ve been having.”
“It does seem to have warmed up over the past few days,” she agreed.
Ha ha, he thought. Got her to look at me, not the sandwich. He went on, “It snowed last week, you know.”
“Oh, did it?”
“Yes, just a little.”
“I wasn’t here then.”
“Where were you?”
“Traveling here from Nantwich.”
Damn. “Nantwich” sounded too much like “sandwich.” Anthony willed himself to keep his eyes on Miss Kent’s face. “That’s in the north, isn’t it?”
“Yes, not far from Liverpool.”
“Is that where you’re from?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“I didn’t know the Penhallows had a northern branch of the family.”
“There are two, Great-grandmother says—one up in Cumbria, and another further north, in the Scottish Highlands. But not in Nantwich.”
Damn again. Don’t look down, old chap, don’t look down, Anthony sternly told himself. “So you’re from a twig of the family, then?”
Miss Kent smiled a little. “That’s a good way to put it. Titus Penhallow was my grandfather.”
“Titus? I’ve never heard of him.”
“He was a son of Great-grandmother’s.”
“Oh, I see.”
“There’s a portrait of him over on the mantel.”
Miss Kent gestured with one of those beautiful hands of hers, and Anthony looked over to the wide beveled mantelpiece, which held several smallish paintings, a white marble bust of Shakespeare, a mahogany-inlaid clock, and a tall crystal vase filled with exquisite pink flowers. This last item Anthony surveyed with no small degree of pleasure, as it put paid to Margaret’s vindictive assertion that the Penhallow hothouse was unable to properly grow those fabled roses of Provins. Then he remembered he was supposed to be looking for a portrait of Titus Penhallow. Well, it had to be the young man with the wavy straw-colored hair, gray eyes, and dark eyelashes and brows.
“I say, Miss Kent, you’re as alike as—”
The time-honored phrase two peas in a pod remained unspoken. Actually, it would not have been too much to say that it stuck in his throat, as Anthony now saw that while he had been perusing the mantel, Miss Kent had taken the last sandwich, and was now busily engaged in chewing.
Piqued, Anthony glanced pointedly at the empty sandwich platter. It would be ungallant in him to openly accuse her of guile, subterfuge, or outright thievery. Still, he had Miss Kent’s measure now, and the next time they had tea together he would know what to do.
He watched as Miss Kent popped the last bit of sandwich in her mouth, chewed, swallowed, and dabbed at those Provins-pink lips of hers with a napkin.
Yes indeed, he was looking forward to besting her.
Their guests had left, and Jane, comfortably full, felt a little guilty about taking the last sandwich. On the other hand, the Duke had taken the last biscuit, so maybe that made it fair. Or was it possible there was some sort of unwritten rule about dukes getting more food than other people? Well, too bad, she thought defiantly. And felt rather sorry she hadn’t eaten more butter-cakes.
Great-grandmother Henrietta, sitting bolt upright as she always seemed to do, said with a sniff:
“What a ramshackle person Anthony Farr is.”
“Granny, why do you say that?” asked Livia. “I like him.”
“I can’t imagine why. He’s simply raffish—hardly my idea of a proper duke. Did you observe the scuff on his boots? And his neckcloth! I daresay that you, Gabriel, would never leave your room, let alone the house, with yours tied in that shabby way.”
“I do prefer a bit more precision for myself,” said Cousin Gabriel, “but it doesn’t mean I judge him based upon his sartorial preferences. Also, I believe he’s an excellent landlord to his tenant farmers, and there’s nobody I’d rather talk to about timber than Farr. Just last month he gave me some very useful suggestions for those yew groves that are getting overcrowded.”
Great-grandmother waved her hand impatiently. “Yes, yes, that’s all very well and good, but I object to his comportment. And his lack of dignity. And his obsession with his pigs.”
Jane watched as onto Cousin Gabriel’s face came a faint, amused smile. “You might well accuse me of the same obsession, Grandmama.”
“Well, that’s a different matter entirely,” answered Great-grandmother loftily. “The Penhallow pigs are renowned throughout Somerset for their superior size and bone structure. Now, Jane,” she went on, clearly done with dukes, timber, and things porcine, “I wanted to let you know that before you go off to your lessons tomorrow, Alice Simpkin, the Riverton seamstress, will come here to take your measurements and discuss various fabrics and trimmings. You’re in urgent need of gowns, pelisses, hats, shoes, and so on.”
Not for the first time since arriving at Surmont Hall, Jane felt rather like a character in a fairy tale. Herself the drab little ragamuffin. Arriving at a magnificent palace. And Great-grandmother the magician, casually waving a wand that would produce—hey presto!—new clothes. Jane tried to remember the last time she had had something new.
And couldn’t.
She looked down at the ivory-colored silk brocade slippers Great-grandmother had loaned her. They were beautiful, but too tight. Only think of it. New shoes, which would fit. Happiness at the very thought filled Jane up like a balloon expanding with air, and for a few giddy moments she thought she might actually float up toward the ceiling.
“Thank you very much, Great-grandmother,” she said, in her voice a lilt of pleasure. “And for taking me in like this. If you’re sure it’s not a horrible inconvenience?”