“That you look lovely in that gown.”
She didn’t appear as flattered as he’d expected. “Thank you,” she said thinly. “Although it would be rather vain of me to agree with you on that.”
“True.” He cocked his head. “Then we can both agree that I look dashing in my theater attire. I don’t mind being considered vain in the least.”
She clearly fought a smile. “But I mind your assumption that I will agree.”
“How could you not agree?” He grinned. “I’ll have you know my valet worked very hard to make me a man of fashion for this evening.”
“He can work as hard as he likes, but you will never be a man of fashion.”
He blinked. “Why not?”
“You’re too . . . too obviously unconcerned about your appearance. You’re the very opposite of vain.” She reached up with both hands to fool with his cravat. “For example, our dancing seems to have set this askew. A man of fashion would already have noticed that in a mirror and straightened it.”
His heart thundered to have her so close. And God, but her hair smelled delicious, like lilies. Yes! That was the exotic scent he hadn’t been able to place. Leave it to Vanessa to choose a scent that smelled exotic but was as English as plum pudding. He barely resisted the urge to lean forward and sniff to make sure.
Clearly he had lost his mind. He must make this less personal at once, before he fell under her spell and did or said something he regretted. “What were we talking about?”
She smirked at him. “Things we agree on. So far, there has been only the one.”
“Ah. Then I would point out that we both like polemoscopes.”
A deep blush spread from her bosom up to her face, which only increased her spell over him, damn it. “I don’t . . . know what you mean.”
“Of course you do. You used one while I was in your uncle’s box.” He lowered his voice. “Probably to spy on Juncker.”
She glanced away. “Right. Who else would I spy on?”
“Speaking of Juncker, what do you think of his poetry?” It still bothered him he couldn’t reveal to her the true author of Juncker’s plays. “I’m assuming you’ve read some of it.”
“Of course,” she said, a bit too hastily. “It’s very moving.”
How curious. Could she not have read his poetry? Wasn’t she mad for the fellow?
They passed through the doorway, and he led her to a spot at the largest table, where his family seemed to be congregating. Juncker was at an adjoining table, so Sheridan made sure to offer Vanessa a seat with her back to the man before taking the one beside her. Sheridan had not enjoyed watching that fraudulent arse dance with Vanessa and be so charming and theatrical, playing a part in a farce of Juncker’s own making, where Vanessa was the heroine and Juncker was the hero.
But even if Sheridan couldn’t tell her Juncker hadn’t written the plays that had made the man famous, Sheridan fully intended to, at the very least, expose Juncker’s true character as a roué.
The food was laid out in an adjoining room, which was normally Thorncliff’s breakfast room, so after placing napkins on the table to save their spots, they went to gather their provisions. As they wended their way around the room, he noticed she took an extra buttered crab, which was one less than he’d taken.
While they headed back to their seats, he said, “I see you like crab as much as I do.”
“How ungentlemanly of you to notice.” Her teasing smile belied her words. “A lady isn’t supposed to partake so blatantly of food.”
“Surely even ladies must eat.”
She cast her gaze about the room. “Yes. But most ladies I know pretend that they mustn’t. It’s a peculiar game they play—in which they aren’t supposed to eat heartily even though they do so at home.”
“I take it that theirs isn’t a game you enjoy.”
A faint smile crept across her face. “You take it correctly. I fear I have quite a lusty appetite and no desire to hide it.”
Just the word lusty stoked his imagination with flashes of her removing each piece of her clothing one at a time until she wore nothing but a come-hither look.
He gripped his plate as if it held the key to a wanton lady’s boudoir. She was talking about food, damn it all. Food.
“Good,” he said. “And I think no less of you for your . . . er . . . appetite. So we will leave those other ladies to starve, if that’s their preference, but in the meantime, we will eat our fill. Agreed?”
This time her smile was broader. “Agreed.”
God, how he loved that rare smile, as if he had hung the moon. How he wished he had hung the moon for her, and not merely criticized a societal more.
They headed back to their seats. Thorn sat across from them, with Olivia on one side and Mother on the other. Next to Mother was Sir Noah. Sheridan hated to admit it, but he much preferred that his mother spend time with Sir Noah rather than William Bonham.
Thorn disliked Bonham because he thought the man too far beneath Mother for marriage. But that wasn’t Sheridan’s issue. He’d be happy to see Mother find companionship with someone if Bonham didn’t already have a tendency to treat Sheridan like a son who needed instruction in running an estate.
Granted, Bonham had been working for the dukes of Armitage for decades, so if anyone had the right to act paternal, it was him. Still, while it was probably petty of Sheridan, as far as he was concerned no one could fill the position of mentor, advisor . . . friend except his actual father. So he didn’t appreciate Bonham sniffing around his mother, trying to take his late father’s place.
Mother wouldn’t care how Sheridan felt about Bonham, of course. Her marriage to Sheridan’s father, while amiable, hadn’t exactly been a love match. And besides, she’d always behaved as she pleased.
Apparently, so had Vanessa, judging from what foods she’d put on her plate. To his surprise, most of it was the same as his. He couldn’t believe anyone else liked Brussels sprouts. Other than Thorn, that is, who had the same fondness for them as Sheridan, probably because of their upbringing in Prussia. The Prussians did love their Brussels sprouts.
“So, Sheridan,” Thorn said, seeming to dissect his roast beef most deliberately, “what did you think of the play?”
Olivia paled and kept shaking her head, obviously begging Sheridan to keep silent.
Mischief seized Sheridan. “Don’t tell your friend Juncker, but I thought it a bit silly.”
Beside him, Vanessa let out a huff. “Isn’t that exactly what I said you thought of it when you came to Uncle Noah’s box? You don’t like such ‘frivolity.’ You said you had no opinion, but clearly you lied.”
He looked at his brother, whose brow was darkening. “You’re right,” Sheridan said. “I actually thought it an inane tale of events that made no sense.”
Olivia cast her gaze heavenward as Thorn glowered at Sheridan. “What didn’t make sense about it? And what right do you even have to judge?” Thorn sat back, having apparently given up on eating. “You’re hardly a connoisseur of dramatic literature.”
“Perhaps not, but I recognize good writing when I see it.”