Miss Ambrose's lips parted, and she stared dumbstruck at him for several seconds. "You came only for the food?" she finally managed to ask.
"You look a hungry sort of girl," he said, intentionally being as blunt as his reputation had him. She would scamper off, and he would be free of another young miss who lived her life by the rules, not by the truth of her heart. "Aren't you looking forward to sitting down to dine more than you are to any songs on the pianoforte or games of whist?"
She gaped at him as if he were an exotic animal, then leaned forward confidentially and whispered, "I am perishing of hunger. I could eat an entire goose, were one to wander in and conveniently fall dead at my feet." Then she pulled back and put her fingertips to her lips as if she could push the words back in. "A lady is not supposed to admit to such things, is she?"
"I hardly think the scandal sheets will pillory you for it," he said, utterly surprised by her answer.
She flashed him a grateful smile, and he wondered if she was ignorant of his minor infamy. He had not killed anyone, he had not cheated anyone of their wealth, he had not ruined any virgins, yet for his past and present choices gentlewomen had closed ranks against him and counted him a nefarious fellow, unworthy of their daughters. He knew he had been a frequent topic of the crudest sort of gossip. But it did not bother him much; he had not found any daughters worthy of him.
The announcement came for dinner, and he gave this new young woman his arm. After the briefest of hesitations she took it, and he saw that it was shyness that had stayed her for a moment, not offended honor. She really might not know anything about him! He was surprised by his pleasure in that thought.
Mrs. Twitchen indicated with a benevolent nod that he should sit beside Miss Ambrose at the table. Miss Twitchen sat on his other side, the young girl exchanging a long, meaningful look with Miss Ambrose before smartly turning all her attention to the gentleman farmer who sat on her other side. The look sent Miss Ambrose into blinking blushes, and she stared at her dish of soup as if she had never seen such a thing before.
And perhaps she hadn't. The pea soup had chunks of blue-veined Stilton cheese, half-melted, floating about in it.
"Oh, dear," he said from the side of his mouth. "Cook has been creative."
Her spoon clattered into her dish, and she gave a snort of nervous laughter. She peeked at him, a wary look in her eyes.
Had Miss Twitchen spoken of him earlier, and Miss Ambrose not connected the topic of that conversation to him until that long look? How disappointing. He had started to think he might get through a meal with an attractive female companion and not feel as if she thought he might give her fleas.
For Miss Ambrose was attractive, in those moments she began to relax and the tendons in her neck smoothed out, and the little worried frown between her brows disappeared. He put her age at about twenty, six years younger than he himself, but even for that age there was a remarkable lack of polish and ease about her.
Ah, well. She'd have her London season, and then her unaffectedness would be gone forever in the name of social graces.
"I would have my dinner backward if I could," she suddenly said in a very soft voice.
"How's that?" he asked, glad she was still speaking to him. His meal need not be passed in icy silence, after all. What had that long look with Miss Twitchen meant?
"Dessert and sweatmeats first. I do think pea soup with Stilton should be left as a final deterrent to gluttons who are overlong at table."
For the second time he was surprised by his own laughter. Heads turned in their direction. "Are you going to eat it?" he asked.
"Oh, I must," she said, picking up her spoon. "I could not embarrass Mrs. Twitchen by not doing so. And I am hungry-enough that I don't think even clippings from Cook's toe-nails in the soup could put me off."
He set his own spoon into his bowl, any intention of tasting the vile stuff gone from his mind. "That is a thoroughly repulsive thought."
She glanced at him, a spoonful of green and white at her lips. She raised her brows, then purposefully sucked it in.
For the third time, he laughed.
"Miss Ambrose," Captain Twitchen said, speaking across the intervening diners, interrupting their conversations. "What is it that you are saying to amuse our Mr. Brent so?"
"I really don't know, sir," she said, dipping her spoon back into her soup.
"Damn if it isn't the first time I've seen the man in a good humor. Mr. Brent, what is so funny?"
"You will have to amuse yourself with wondering," Richard said.
"Damn!"
"Captain Twitchen!" his wife admonished from her end of the table.
"But damn, Mary. It must be a confoundingly good joke."
"Direct your attention to the fish, please," Mrs. Twitchen said, and the servants on their silent feet came around and carried off the offending soup, replacing it with a platter of fish that the captain would have to serve to his guests. The man looked somewhat peeved.
The fish was served and eaten, and Richard could not fail to note that Miss Ambrose consumed every sliver of flaky white meat upon her plate. "You enjoyed the fish?" he asked as it was removed and the platters of the main course were arrayed around the table.
"It helped to erase the memory of the soup," she said.
"Where did you come from, Miss Ambrose?" he asked, as he served her from the platters nearest to them. "And no, don't tell me Shropshire. You know that is not what I mean."
"Then what do you mean?"
"There, now you're sounding more like the usual young lady, delicately fishing for a compliment."
"I certainly am not! I cannot help if you ask questions of uncertain meaning. I come from Shropshire, and there is very little to add to my history than that."
"Your parents?"
"Deceased."
"Ah."
"'Ah' what, sir?"
"More oysters?"
"Yes, thank you. 'Ah' what?"
"'Ah,' you will be hunting for a husband this season."
"And what girl does not?"
"Have you an inheritance?"
"That is an impertinent question," she replied.
"I thought we were done with illusions of proper conversation, after that mention of Cook's toenails," he said, disappointed that she had retreated behind that false shield of propriety.
She speared a fried oyster on her fork, and met his eyes. "No, I have no inheritance. This is not my gown, nor my jewelry, nor my ribbons, nor my flowers."
"Then 'Ah,' you are going to be whipping your hounds into a fine frenzy to run down and trap a husband, for all that you have a pretty face."
Emotions he could not read flowed across her face. She ate her oyster and speared another. "I shall do my best. Do you have any advice to offer, you who are so worldly?"
"Are you mocking me?"
"Would I dare?" she asked, eating the second oyster and going for a third.
He laughed, genuinely delighted. "You would, wouldn't you? I doubt you are quite so daring as you pretend, though."
"How so?"
She was working her way through the chicken, the lamb, and the stewed venison on her plate. The girl had not been jesting about being hungry. "More oysters?" he asked.
"Please."
He served her, taking all but the last oyster from the dish and depositing them on her plate. "I would wager you are one of those girls who will venture to the edge of propriety, but never take a step beyond. In words you may take a risk, but never in deed."
She finished off the last of the venison and applied herself to the new batch of oysters. "I would not know."