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As the meal was served she managed well enough by keeping an eye on what the other ladies did and with subtle prompts from Nick who would tap his finger against the correct glass, or pause, a spoon half-lifted from the cloth, so she could observe what to use next. She sent him a fleeting smile of thanks and tried not to colour up when he smiled back.
Conversation was easy, she found. All one had to do was to listen to the gentlemen talking and occasionally agree, or make a vapid comment of one’s own. They seemed quite content with that. Perhaps they did not want wives who were schooled in the classical poets, in music and in the arts, women who could converse on whatever subject they raised. It was very strange. She had thought that women of education would be valued, but it seemed only those oddly named bluestockings believed in female intelligence.
Nick, flanked by two admiring young ladies, appeared to be enjoying himself, Anusha thought critically. It was a fine example of flirtation in action. And none of the older matrons appeared to think anything was amiss, so the constraints on the men to behave themselves must be very great, which was a relief.
And then she thought about how Nick had shed those constraints last night, how she had so badly wanted him to lose all control, and she felt the blood colouring her cheeks. But I love him and I do not want any of these other men—that makes all the difference.
* * *
She ventured a question when the servants cleared the table for the second remove and she turned to her left to converse. ‘I am sorry, but I do not know how to address you. Is it Mr Arbuthnott, or Lord—?’
‘Sir Clive. I am a baronet.’ He did not appear offended by her ignorance so she tried another question.
‘And is a baronet like a knight?’
‘It is an hereditary title. A knighthood is not inherited by the son.’
‘So it is like a little baron?’ Her father was a knight.
‘It is a rank lower, yes.’ Sir Clive did seem rather offended by her turn of phrase, so Anusha hastened to make amends.
‘I am so ignorant about English titles, you see.’ She did the eyelash-fluttering thing that these men appeared to find so attractive. It certainly worked with Sir Clive. He relaxed and settled down to explaining all about the aristocracy and, to her surprise, did it rather well. By the time she turned back to Lord Langley and dessert, she realised that she had been taking to a strange man without the slightest discomfort. Quite an attractive man, in fact.
She caught Nick’s gaze as she turned—he did not look very pleased. In fact, the look he directed at Sir Clive was positively cool. He is jealous! The thought made her want to grin, but she caught her lower lip in her teeth just in time and managed to keep her gaze demure.
Was he remembering that night in her cabin when he had held her and had fought so hard against his own desires? Was he thinking of their kisses last night, of their naked flesh pressed intimately together, of the pleasure he had given her? He would not let that happen again, she knew. He was her father’s man, and his loyalty lay there and her father wanted her for some wealthy man of influence.
Chapter Seventeen
The ladies rose at their hostess’s signal, the men standing, too, and they all trooped out, maintaining an air of elegance and poise until the doors shut behind them and the entire group fell to chattering and laughing. One party, Anusha assumed, went off in search of the privy and to dab at noses made shiny by the heat of the dining room, others strolled arm in arm on the terrace, heads together and, so far as she could hear, gossiping about the men. The older matrons sat down on the rattan sofas and fanned themselves. Anusha waited to see what would happen next.
Nothing, apparently, but gossip and giggling for half an hour, by which time she was bored to distraction. Anusha strolled round the room and found a chair half-concealed behind some potted palms next to the older ladies. Their conversation had to be more interesting than that of the unmarried girls.
‘...so surprised to see Major Herriard here tonight,’ one of the older matrons was saying. ‘When was the last time we saw him at a formal dinner?’
‘Oh, months,’ one of the others remarked. ‘Are you still thinking of trying to attach him for dear Deborah?’
‘Would that I could, Lady Ames! He appears to have forsworn matrimony. Perhaps it was a love match with that pallid little Miranda Knight, although one would hardly think him a man of sentiment.’
‘Perhaps Sir George intends him for Miss Laurens.’ The comment was almost a whisper. Anusha dropped her fan and scrabbled for it on the floor, ears straining.
