“Tamsyn, in polite English society we don't eat with our fingers,” he corrected, before Gareth's fixed stare became too obvious. “I know I've mentioned it before.”
“Oh, yes, I forgot,” she said hastily, putting the bone down and licking her fingers. “It seems silly to use a knife and fork, though, when fingers and teeth are so much more efficient.”
Gareth's laugh resounded around the room, bouncing off the paneled walls. “Very silly,” he agreed. “There's far too much nonsense about such things. Why shouldn't one eat with one's fingers if one wishes?”
“I imagine Spanish customs are very different from English,” Lucy said with a rather rigid smile. “It must be hard for you to remember everything.”
“It is,” Tamsyn said frankly. ''I'm hoping you won't mind helping me, Lucy. I'm sure your brother would be glad to be relieved of some of the burden. I know he finds it onerous.”
Her smile deepened as she looked at Julian, and two dimples appeared beside her mouth. He wondered why he hadn't noticed them before. Her cheeks were a trifle flushed, her eyes very bright. The footman refilled her wineglass, and Julian found himself counting. It was her third glass of wine, after two glasses of sherry.
She continued in this unusual fashion throughout dinner. The only effect it seemed to have was to make her sparkle. Julian knew from experience that Tamsyn rarely did anything without purpose. Clearly she wanted to make up their quarrel.
Gareth was obviously fascinated with Tamsyn, his eyes following her every move, his rumbling laugh greeting her every sally, and Lucy became increasingly silent. Tamsyn was not encouraging him in the least, but then that wasn't necessary to get Gareth Fortescue's attention.
When the ladies withdrew to the drawing room, Gareth sniffed his port appreciatively. “Lively little thing, isn't she? I'd always thought Spaniards were devilish strait-laced with their women… convents and duennas and so forth. But that chit's as lively a piece as I've come across.”
“You always did have a delicate turn of phrase, Fortescue,” Julian said with a touch of ice. His brother in-law had imbibed heavily and was looking very flushed, his eyes a trifle unfocused.
“Oh, beg your pardon, St. Simon.” Gareth smiled expansively. “No offense meant, of course. Dear little innocent, of course. Father was some Spanish grandee, didn't you say?”
“And a close acquaintance of Wellington's,” Julian stated.
“Wealthy, I should imagine? These grandees tend to be, I gather.” Gareth hiccupped and selected a grape from the bowl in front of him.
“So I understand.”
The subject was not proving promising, and even Gareth finally got the message and lapsed into a doleful silence. The prospect of the long summer months in the company of his unforthcoming and strait-laced brother in-law, with no Marjorie to spice the mixture, began to seem less attractive than it had.
In the drawing room Lucy was struggling to recover her equanimity as she took the hostess's place behind the teacups. “Do you drink tea after dinner in Spain?”
“Not in general.” Tamsyn regarded Lucy thoughtfully. It seemed to her that Julian's sister was in need of a little sisterly guidance. The question was: how to dispense it without giving too much away?
Lucy poured tea. “We always put the milk in afterward,” she offered a shade stiffly.
“Why is that?”
“So that one can adjust the strength,” Lucy said.
“You can't tell if you put the milk in first.”
“No, I suppose not,” Tamsyn agreed, taking a seat on the sofa beside Lucy. “I must remember that. Tell me about your husband.”
“Why would you want to know about him?” Two spots of color burned on Lucy's cheeks as she handed Tamsyn a cup.
Tamsyn took a sip and decided that now was not the moment for tea. “Because I think you need some help,” she said candidly, discarding her teacup. “After only ten months of marriage a man should still be sleeping in his wife's bed. And if you're not careful, that husband of yours is going to start some serious wandering.”
“Oh, how could you say such a scandalous thing?”
Lucy clapped her hands to her flaming cheeks. “What could you possibly know about such things?”
“I'm Spanish,” Tamsyn said vaguely. “We're perhaps a little more open about these matters.” She rose to her feet and went to the decanters on the sideboard. She'd have to slide carefully around her cover if she was to help Lucy, but their earlier conversation combined with an evening in the company of Gareth Fortescue had made it very clear to her that young Lucy needed some help.
She poured herself a glass of wine, sympathetically regarding the girl's flushed and bemused indignation. “Do you care for your husband, Lucy?”
“Of course I do!” Tears sparked in the china-blue eyes. “And he cares for me.”
“Yes, of course he does.” Tamsyn sat down again, cradling her wineglass. “But he's older than you, and a deal more experienced. Do you enjoy being in bed with him?”
Lucy stared at her, dumbfounded.
Tamsyn nodded. “You were a virgin, of course. And I don't suppose he thought to discover what pleased you. Men like that often don't.”
“Whatever do you mean?” Lucy was struggling for words, unable to believe she was really hearing this. “I don't want to talk about this… it's horrible… it's not decent.”
“Oh, for heaven's sake, Lucy. If you don't talk about it, how will you ever learn to make love? And if you don't learn, then you won't learn to enjoy it, and neither will your husband. And then you really will be in a pretty pickle.” She drank her wine with a matter-of-fact nod. “Cecile was always telling me about the prudishness of the English and how women weren't expected to know anything about pleasuring… In fact, when she was a girl, it was considered quite shocking for a woman to enjoy coupling.”
“Cecile?” Lucy said faintly.
“My mother. She would have talked to you just as I am, Lucy, so please don't be offended.”
Lucy stared at this extraordinary girl who was regarding her with an air of confident authority that made her feel like a patient with a physician.
Before she could gather her wits, however, Julian and Gareth strolled into the drawing room.
“Lucy has been explaining to me the correct way to pour tea in the drawing room,” Tamsyn said. “May I pour for the gentlemen, Lucy?”
Lucy moved away from the tea tray, aware that Tamsyn had noticed her hands were not quite steady. When Julian suggested she play, she went to the pianoforte reluctantly. Her head was so full of what she'd heard that her fingers were all thumbs, and after two muddled and discordant attempts at a folk song, Gareth said with a degree of brutality, “Oh, for God's sake, Lucy. Spare our ears. It sounds like a tribe of cats on the prowl.”
Lucy dropped the lid of the instrument with a bang.
“I beg your pardon.” She got up and returned to the sofa. “I'm sure you'd prefer to hear Tamsyn play. I'm sure she counts it among her many accomplishments.”
“I don't play the pianoforte, only the guitar,” Tamsyn said readily, ignoring Lucy's petulant tone. She'd shocked the girl and would renew her tutorial in the morning, when Lucy had had a chance to absorb what she'd heard.
“How exotic,” Lucy murmured.
“Not where I come from,” Tamsyn responded. “It's considered a minor accomplishment.”
“Like other things, I imagine.”
“Possibly.”
Julian frowned as Lucy's barbed comments flew and Tamsyn batted them gently back without any sign of hostility. But Lucy was radiating antagonism.
Gareth cleared his throat. “Think I'll take a stroll down to the village before bed. I daresay I'll see you all in the morning.” He bent over Lucy and pecked her cheek. “Good night, my dear. Don't stay up late, now. You've had a long journey.”
Lucy's cheeks paled, and then the pallor was driven away by a crimson tide. Her eyes darted involuntarily toward Tamsyn, who studiously avoided meeting her gaze.