The Penwyth Bride (The Witch's Daughter Book 1) by Ani Bolton Read Free Book Online

room?” Lady Penwyth snapped at her daughter. Susannah halted her headlong plunge toward her brother, flushing an unbecoming purple. She shot a sideways glance at me on the divan, my hand still in Damon’s.
    “I . . . no, Mama. That is . . . Nanny begs me to tell you that the table is ready.”
    Lady Penwyth smoothed her hair and rose. “Then shall we go in? We are usually very informal at supper, Miss Eames, so you will forgive my children for behaving as if they had no breeding or manner about them.”
    “Oh we’ve got the breeding, Mother,” Damon remarked behind me as I was led, waist encircled, by Lady Penwyth to the dining room. “But manners change like fashion, and right now it is fashionable to act like rusticates. Ain’t it so, Father?”
    “Oh, I think you’re well-versed in knowing when to exhibit your breeding and when to hide it,” Sir Grover murmured.
    Something flashed in Damon’s eyes, and his grin briefly lost some of its elasticity. When I found the courage to look up again, he was sitting opposite me at the dining table. His unrepentant smile widened as he caught my glance, and I felt a hateful blush staining my neck.
    The joint oozed savory juices, and the mackerel potted in blood flaked tenderly off the bone. A cornucopia of seasonal fruit, grapes, peaches, currants, and an exotic orange erupted out of the centerpiece, while Sir Grover’s stock of burgundies flowed lavishly. The table was set in good style but the food all tasted like ash in my mouth. I knew that Damon Penwyth had seized my heart, utterly and completely, and it had taken him less than three minutes.

CHAPTER FIVE
     
    As the meal progressed, I learned, after a good bit of sifting, that Sir Grover was heavily invested in tin mining, and that his mine--Wheal Kitty--was so successful that it almost entirely funded his last election attempt on the Whig ticket.
    “And how many miners do you employ, Sir Grover?” I asked, having only the dimmest inkling regarding our kingdom’s political divisions.
    He paused in pulling the mackerel’s spine out of its back. “Now that is an interesting question, Miss Eames, and my answer is that I’m not exactly certain. My agent sees to it. Hundreds, I should imagine.”
    I exclaimed suitably.
    “Brutal work, too,” Damon said. He swirled the wine in his glass languidly. “Underground for eight hours in foul air, chipping away at rock while the whole mess could come down on them any minute and bury them alive. No wonder most of them get drunk at the end of the day.”
    “Is that nice talk at table?” his mother interjected.
    “She wanted to know. It’s a wretched business.”
    I thought of the gashed moorland, moaning under the outrage, and silently agreed with him.
    Sir Grover deftly dropped the heap of fish bones on the side platter. “The men are able to feed their families on my wages, sir, as I am able to feed mine. I see that I shall have to allow you to take a more active interest in our livelihood.”
    “A gentleman labors with his head, not his hands,” came his son’s reply.
    Sir Grover sighed. “An English gentleman does both, sir, and you will learn it if I have to send you down with the tinners myself. In fact, you may get the chance soon, for Tregurtha has wind that another set has been discovered.”
    “Are you certain?” Lady Penwyth’s increasingly pained expression transformed into attentive interest. Even Damon and Susannah looked intrigued.
    Sir Grover tapped open the mackerel’s blood crust. “Aye. Not far from Wheal Kitty too, another stroke of good luck. I’ve sent a few men to follow the set to see if it’ll turn into a seam.”
    “Oh Papa!” Susannah exclaimed.
    “Perhaps I can lure you into dirtying your hands after all,” Sir Grover murmured sardonically to his son.
    “Perhaps.” Damon kept his attention on his wineglass. “I was thinking of speaking to Roger about buying joint-stock in one of his ships. He has dashed good luck with