Rivals and Revels (A Regency Romance)

5. The Fruits of Insomnia (1 of 3)

The cook fumed in the kitchen, making sure that the banging of her pots and pans thundered throughout the house, in the manner of cymbals and tympans of a grand orchestra.

When Miss Carter went there to restore peace, Mabel caught the bits of her ranting.

Produce a lunch for a hoodlum dropping in willy-nilly, you say! So that's what I am doing, Ma'am.

And how do you want me to do it, by magic? Do I look like a faery queen?

Young Mr. Chesterton has no right to complain if he should have to return home hungry, if you ask me.

And so forth, and so on, she carried. She needn't have made such a scene, for her moaning fooled no one. Everett's unexpected visit gave her a golden opportunity to brag in this odd fashion about her foresight and skill.

In truth, she piled the platters with enough seed cakes to feed Napoleon's starving troops on their retreat through the frozen wasteland of Russia. When added to the strawberries and cream scoured from the pantry; this year's gooseberry preserves with bread; and the cured meats—all that added up to a feast threatening the table to collapse under its weight rather than a simple noon's repast.

Not to mention, the dishes tasted divine. Everett asserted this sentiment multiple times, in a booming voice, to ensure his opinion carried to the kitchen and redeemed him in the cook's eyes.

And even if the cook wasn't this marvellously resourceful, Mabel didn't eat a single bite.

Pity toward Everett; loathing him for being so disparaging of Lancashire; and a mad hope that he might change his unfair opinion overwhelmed her poor senses. And whenever her senses became overwhelmed, her stomach shrunk to the size of a thimble. Today, it was less than a thimbleful. Mayhap it was a point of a pin, mayhap even smaller. She would have thought it altogether gone, if not for a roiling sensation whenever she caught the gaze of his merry eyes.

"You are such a dainty eater, Miss Mabel. No wonder your wrists are so graceful," he said, leaning over so close to her, that his lips almost touched her ear. "It is a pleasure to watch them move."

Mabel, who was buttering and buttering the same scone with the strokes she normally reserved for chasing the elusive perfection in a painting, stole a glance at her wrist.

She saw them plenty, but Everett's bold compliment made her wonder if the narrow, flexible joints were attractive in a fresher sense, crossing into suggestive territory. Graceful, flexible, sinuous... the words conjured words, and the words conjured images. Smudged figures in flowing gauze undulated before her mind's eyes. Delicate fingers pinched under her ribcage with nobody touching her. She recrossed her ankles under the table.

Should she acknowledge his words as flirting or cut him off? Her eyes lifted in search of an ally.

Unfortunately, Miss Carter at this moment was laughing at something Amelia had shared only with her, as had often happened thanks to the woman's extraordinary shyness.

Hazel had no such flaw, but her attention was consumed with nibbling on a strawberry lightly dipped in clotted cream. It must have been a choice one, because her eyes hooded with pleasure and the tip of her pink tongue delicately licked juice with every bite. It was a vision, yes, but she couldn't expect help from this corner.

Left to her own devices, she decided that if she kept her tone neutral, it would be appropriate to acknowledge the compliment. "Thank you, Mr. Chesterton. I play piano-forte." A pleased smile touched her lips—if it sounded like anything, it sounded prim.

"You must enjoy dancing," he guessed.

She should have been relieved that the question was far more conventional, but her toes curled. She hated to lie, but she also hated to admit that she had no accomplishments worthy of mention in the realm of Terpsichore.