Jane looked at the Duke. She wanted to say yes, but it was really up to him.
And she saw that he was looking back at her.
Actually, he was staring, and with a rather flatteringly fascinated expression on his face, too.
Anthony was seeing Miss Jane Kent with fresh eyes.
Anybody who jumped at the chance to slide blancmange into the Duchess’ trough was someone he wanted to know better.
Also, she clearly liked dogs, which was another major point in her favor, and she was wearing boots just right for a tramp in the outdoors, a choice so wise and practical that he would have liked to—say—wring her hand by way of signifying his approval.
He would not, therefore, be so petty as to carry a grudge against her for taking that last sandwich yesterday; he would be magnanimous and let it go. Plus he had noticed that when she smiled, a charming dimple appeared in each cheek. There was something so appealing about dimples. He said:
“Do join us, Miss Kent.”
She smiled again, and there they were—those dimples.
He smiled back. Yes, very appealing.
“Thank you. I’d like that. Your Grace.”
“You both sound very stuffy,” said Wakefield critically. “Come on, let’s go. Jane, you’d better put Snuffles down. He likes to go about with the other dogs, and I don’t want him thinking he’s not as good as they are, just because his legs don’t work properly.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you, Wakefield,” Jane said, and gently put Snuffles onto the ground. He immediately scampered off to try and take hold of Joe’s tail in his mouth.
The three of them, leaving behind a still-downcast Johns to rake out the interior of the Duchess’ pen, walked toward the Hastings manor house. As Wakefield, who had positioned himself in the middle of their trio, told him all about today’s lessons, Jane’s agreeable interest in the ruin, her resemblance to the Greek goddess Athena, and how well he had driven the pony-cart, Anthony listened attentively, but he also cast a few sideways glances at Miss Kent.
He wondered why he hadn’t observed yesterday that she had a nice face.
He liked how her big gray eyes were framed by dark curling lashes, and how her nose turned up, just a little and in a delightful way, at its tip. And how her chin was a bit pointed, giving her profile a look of subtle determination. Of course, he already had seen that her mouth was beautifully formed, pink as a rose in bloom, and very soft and tender.
Oh, and those dimples, too.
She was smiling at something Wakefield had just said, and so there was at this exact moment a dimple in the cheek that he could see from this angle.
What was it about dimples, that made them so attractive?
They had passed the stables, to which all the dogs were diverted, then had come onto the graveled sweep, and were now approaching the wide marble steps of the house. Wakefield went on chattily:
“Father, Jane told Mr. Pressley and me how before she had no money to go to school, but now she does. Isn’t that jolly? Also, she just spent practically three days in bed, and I told her how you were in bed for three years. Do you remember the time I had the influenza and had to stay in bed for a whole fortnight?”
“The memory,” said Anthony, “is seared into my brain. You’re an awful patient, old chap.”
“Yes, but Father, I felt terrible and I was bored. That’s a foul kimbonition.”
“Do you mean combination?”
“Yes, that’s what I said. Oh, hullo, Bunch. Is luncheon ready? We’re all starving.”
“Indeed it is, Master Wakefield,” said Bunch, who stood waiting in the Great Hall after a footman had opened the door to admit them.
“Well, that’s splendid. Bunch, this is Jane from Surmont Hall. Jane, this is Bunch, our butler. He buttles like anything.”
“Thank you, Master Wakefield,” Bunch said, then bowed politely to Miss Kent and received her pelisse and bonnet which he passed along to one of the footmen. “Lady Margaret awaits you in the family dining-parlor,” he said, and so they proceeded there at once, where they found Margaret sitting in her usual place at the foot of the table, looking all too funereal in her customary black, and Anthony introduced her to Miss Kent while a footman swiftly set an additional place.
“How do you do, ma’am?” said Miss Kent, and Margaret replied:
“How do you do? Do sit down before the soup gets any colder than it already is.”
Conversation did not improve from there.
“I understand, Miss Kent, that you’re newly arrived at Surmont Hall.”
Miss Kent paused with her spoon lifted halfway to her mouth. “Yes, ma’am, that’s right.”
“You are from Nantwich?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“That’s near Liverpool, is it not?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“A low, vulgar city by all accounts. I daresay Nantwich is not much different. You’re a relation of the Penhallows?”
“Yes, ma’am. Mrs. Henrietta Penhallow is my great-grandmother.”
“I believe, Miss Kent, the connection is somewhat irregular?”
“Irregular?” piped up Wakefield. “What do you mean, Aunt Margaret?”
Anthony saw that Miss Kent, who had flushed a rather charming pink color, took advantage of Wakefield’s questions to finally bring her soup spoon to her mouth, and then, looking very determined, she began to spread a great deal of butter on a roll. What did Margaret mean by that remark, anyway? Irregular connection. It sounded like some sort of plumbing problem.
Margaret was frowning at Wakefield, a sudden red flush on her cheeks, giving Anthony the distinct impression that, in her rapid-fire interrogation of Miss Kent, she had forgotten Wakefield was even there. Repressively Margaret said to him:
“Nobody was addressing you.”
Wakefield shrugged and went back to his soup.
“Are you planning a long stay here in Somerset, Miss Kent?” Margaret continued.
Miss Kent paused again, this time with her buttered roll halfway to her mouth. At this rate, Anthony thought, she’d never be able to eat her meal, and with a sudden rush of gallantry he hastily interrupted:
“I say, Meg, have you seen my riding gloves? Can’t find them anywhere.”
Margaret gave him a frigid glance. “If you had bothered this morning to look at the suit of armor in the Great Hall, you may have seen the gloves tucked into the face-plate.”
“Well, that’s excellent.” He had, actually, bothered, and had all along thought the face-plate a rather useful place in which to stow his gloves, and an amusing one to boot, but went on with an air of inquiring innocence: “So are they still there?”
“Of course not. I had one of the footmen remove them, and convey them to your room.”
“Ah. Thank you.” Damn it, thought Anthony, this subject’s pretty well thrashed out already, and Jane’s only halfway through her roll. Now what? He cast about in his mind, lit on something that would be akin to tossing a firecracker into a flaming pit of hell, and said, with deceptive casualness:
“I heard a rumor that Miss Humphrey’s planning to show delphiniums at the fête this year.”
This conversational gambit proved to be, Anthony would soon congratulate himself, a masterstroke, as Margaret promptly launched into a passionate (and seemingly endless) monologue about the relative merits of delphiniums versus irises, thus enabling everyone else to enjoy their luncheon without further impediment until, almond custard having been served and Margaret pausing to draw breath, Wakefield said, as he scraped his bowl clean with his spoon: