Page 39 of The Trouble with Tweed

“Tomatoes?” she repeated, frowning.

“I never knew they grew on trees, you see.”

Claire followed his gaze to the red berries in the nearby holly tree and realized then and there she could never be Lord Dunfrey’s wife.

“I’m very sorry to cut this short,” she said. If he had more intelligence, he would have heard the lie in the statement. “But I’m afraid I’m feeling unwell and need to retire.”

Without waiting for a reply, she turned and strode back toward home.

Two days after that, she shared a mortifying public tea with a Lord Way. At first glance, he was handsome enough, though a little portly around the midsection, which was to be forgiven due to the robust size of his accounts, according to Michael.

All was well until a waiter placed a tiered serving tray of tea cakes, scones, and sandwiches between them. Lord Way reached forward and, mid-sentence, shoved an entire watercress sandwich into his cheek, bit down, and continued speaking.

At once, the table became a battleground. Flecks of spittle flew like little mortars from his mouth and crumbs rolled down the front of his waistcoat like an avalanche. In that instant, Claire envisioned a lifetime of meals spread before her. Unless the Way estate table was exceedingly wide, she did not like the future she saw for herself.

With teeth-gritting restraint, she made it through the rest of the afternoon, but stomped up the staircase to her rooms and scratched him off the list immediately.

The following day, Claire poured tea for Lord Vickers in the back parlor. It was much quieter than the massive front parlor, and Claire wouldn’t risk another being scared off by the mob of suitors, like Lord Kerring had been. Mara acted as chaperone, standing at attention beneath an oil landscape.

“My mother is very fond of small porcelain figurines,” Lord Vickers said. “Do you collect anything, Claire?”

Lord Vickers was younger than the others had been, but his mannerisms were far older than his years. His brown hair was nearly insufficient to cover his white pate, but not for lack of careful combing.

“No,” she said. “Not unless you can count dresses as a collection.”

Lord Vickers paused to consider this notion. “No, I don’t believe you can,” he said. “A collection, I believe, is a gathering of objects, chiefly for one’s own amusement, not for functionality. It’s something one can keep on a shelf, or on a dresser, or a mantelpiece, or in a display cabinet, or⁠—”

“Thank you for clearing that up.” She bared her teeth into the semblance of a smile. “Such things are so confusing for me.”

“I am happy to help,” he finally said, after he blinked in a slow, yet alarmed way. “I am a naturally helpful fellow. Mother always comments upon it.”

“How wonderful that you’ve had such a supportive upbringing.” Claire made herself smile once more. “If only everyone were as lucky.”

“Indeed. Do you wish for children, Miss Preston?”

Ah, finally, a question about Claire herself.

“For I do,” he continued just as she opened her mouth to reply. “I should prefer boys.” He said this in a slow, pedantic tone, as if Claire should be sure to mark his preferences down.

“That’s the thing with children,” she said, her smile strained. “One doesn’t get to choose.”

“Mother said she prayed for a son every night, and then she received me.”

What a disappointment that must have been, Claire thought.

He continued, “Mother says that if a woman truly wishes it, she can have a son.”

Claire had never heard such a bit of balderdash in all of her life, but thought it was probably best she didn’t say so. After hearing Lord Vickers wax eloquent for the majority of the past hour as to how wonderful his mother was, Claire thought it best to leave the matter at rest.

“More tea, Lord Vickers?” she offered.

“No.” He gave a grave frown. “If I have more than two cups a day, I’m plagued with wakefulness at night. It’s very interesting. It took me a long time to find the source of the malady, you see. But then Mother suggested⁠—”

Claire clenched her teeth beneath smiling lips and mentally scratched Lord Vickers from her list. If she could barely stand to hear of the man’s mother upon their first real conversation, she doubted things would improve much over the next thirty years.

“I love tea,” she said stoutly, interrupting him for the first time. “In fact, I cannot imagine my life without it.”

“Oh.” Lord Vickers rocked backward in his chair, his eyes wide as if Claire had just announced that on the weekends she loved to dance on tabletops in the local tavern.