Royal Regard

Chapter Ten, Part 3

Her mouth opened and closed, too shocked to respond; his use of her Christian name was the least of his offenses. His smile showed teeth, like a hungry dog on the prowl, and Bella suddenly felt like raw meat. Before she could gather her indignation and throw him out of her house, he sat up, wiped his face clean of everything improper, and said, "Excellent. My sandwiches. You must be Mrs. Jemison."

The housekeeper set down the tray, which held a plate stacked with a veritable mountain of bread, and another with a vast array of sweets, including a slice of the cake Mrs. Elliott had refused to serve Bella at nuncheon, saying it was being saved for after dinner. Mrs. Jemison bobbed a curtsey at Wellbridge, thankfully without undressing him with her eyes. "Yes, Your Grace, Nellie Jemison, at your service. I am happy to provide anything else you might require."

Now sensitive to the undercurrents among her servants, she said, "Thank you Mrs. Jemison. I'm certain the duke has everything he requires."

Mrs. Jemison asked Bella, almost as an afterthought, "Will that be all, Your Ladyship?"

"Yes, thank you."

"Indeed. Thank you," Wellbridge added, "This looks delightful. I will be as fat as a tick when I leave." He spread a cloth napkin across his lap and took up a plate, so focused on the food that he ignored the protocol of waiting for his hostess to offer. Mrs. Jemison's brow furrowed and she pursed her lips, but he ignored her censure, too.

"Thank you, Mrs. Jemison," Bella repeated. "The duke seems quite capable of serving himself." He looked up briefly, only slightly abashed, but when Bella gestured that he might continue, he turned his attention back to the sandwiches, all much larger than typically served in the afternoon. He picked out three, all cold meat rather than shrimp paste or cucumber-and-watercress or egg salad. Mrs. Elliott must have started preparing the tray as soon as he walked in, to offer such a selection. One of the benefits of being a duke, she supposed: the whole world contorting itself to anticipate your desires.

She was relieved the housekeeper left the door wide open without being asked, effectively thwarting the most ignoble of his desires. At least one of her servants had a modicum of common sense.

"Are you certain you wouldn't prefer tea to whiskey with your repast?"

He swallowed the food in his mouth, then agreed, "That would be delightful, Bella. Thank you. Strong please, two lumps, no milk."

Bella emptied the dregs into the slop bowl, rinsed the teapot, then measured out leaves from the tea caddy and tipped the samovar to fill the pot with fresh water. While she waited for it to steep, she said, "I hope you enjoy Ceylon. I know it isn't preferred by most Englishmen, but I have this strain grown specially on my husband's plantation."

He was almost finished with the first three sandwiches, but just before he took the last bite, he said, "I'm afraid my trip to India was cut short by rioting, so I only spent time in Maharashta. I had planned a much longer sojourn, but instead, a year and a half in Russia. I was in India long enough to develop a taste for Ceylon, though. Much more flavorsome than Assam, do you not agree?" He popped the end of the sandwich into his mouth.

"Indeed," she answered, watching his strong jaw working through the crusty bread and thick slice of beef. She was amazed that he could eat so much so quickly without sacrificing too many of his manners. Not that his manners were immaculate.

"You can be sure you have never had this variety. It is a hybrid only grown for me." When he was finished with the beef, his hand floated briefly above the platter to seek out more food; he passed up cucumber on Irish brown bread for some sort of fish paste on Mrs. Elliott's fine-grained wheat.