The Dress of the Season by Kate Noble Read Free Book Online Page B

being very proper with him, very correct. Normally she was a . . . bouncy sort of girl, even though she was on the slighter side, physically. She had always had massive amounts of energy, served with a side of mischief. The young ladies in her social circle were known to flirt outrageously, and dance vivaciously. But to see her sipping her soup so quietly, with such propriety, it baffled.
    Unless of course, she was trying to prove herself docile, in a bid to have him bring her back to London tomorrow.
    “The soup is very good, is it not?” she supplied as conversation. He observed she had not eaten much of it.
    “Yes,” he replied, watching her closely. “I recall that split pea was one of your favorites, and told the cook so.”
    “Not since I was a child,” she wrinkled her nose at him.
    “Really?” his brow came down.
    “Of course it is very good, and I shall endeavor to enjoy it”—she shrugged, still ladylike, but a bit of the casual child she was seeping through—“but it has been ages since I counted it among my favorites.” She tilted her head to one side, one deep brown curl sliding against the soft skin of her throat as she did so.
    So caught was he by that curl, he almost missed what she said next.
    “When is the last time you took a meal with us?”
    When was the last time . . . ? Why, Felicity and Bertha lived in his house! He ate with them all the time! Although, to be fair, he was often out of town—Croft Park and Whitney had a fair bit of work still to do . . . And he was known to take advantage of his club, eating there after a long day in the House of Lords. But it was not wholly his fault, of course—during the Season—regular and Little—Felicity and Bertha were often not to be found dining at home.
    Perhaps she wasn’t being polite and graceful in an effort to impress him, he thought, strangely bereft. Perhaps he had just not observed when she had become a polite and graceful individual.
    “Point taken, Felicity,” he said acknowledging her with a raise of his wine glass. “Well, I am certain you and cook will be able to sit down and work up a menu to your liking.”
    “Yes, that will be a task for tomorrow. Mrs. Smith and I have already spoken of it.”
    “You and Mrs. Smith have taken to each other, it seems,” he answered approvingly. A gleam of humor lit her eyes, but for the life of him he could not see the joke.
    “Yes. We have,” she replied. Then, slowly, “She told me of the damage to my family’s house. The roof was blown off in a storm?”
    Her eyes . . . they were accusing him. Of what, he had no idea.
    “Not blown off,” he hastened to reassure. “A tree fell through a weak point, the morning room is closed off. I promise you, it is being well looked after.”
    “Perhaps money would have been better spent on assessment of the roof, rather than refurbishing your bedroom,” she replied quietly.
    “What on earth are you going on about?” Osterley asked, his brow coming down. He felt his voice become cold, and watched her cheeks go warm in embarrassment.
    Felicity seemed caught, emotions played across her face. She had something on her mind obviously, but was being very careful. It was almost more wearying than when she spoke her mind in its entirety.
    “Out with it, Felicity,” he commanded. She jumped in shock, but then, her eyes narrowed and she turned on him.
    “It’s just that I don’t understand why you would spend money refurbishing your master bedchamber—especially when nothing could be that old, having been replaced four years ago, and you could not take the time to look after my house properly.” Her face burned with embarrassment, with anger, but wet, huge eyes met his, and she powered on. “I had hoped we would become better friends on this holiday. And . . . I understand if you are looking to take someone to wife, that you would wish to impress them—although if it is Mrs. Grace I shall never understand—but it’s my