Romancing the Duke (Castles Ever After #1)(57)
Author: Tessa Dare

Everyone was seated with a minimum of awkwardness.

“Excellent,” she said, beginning to breathe easier. This really needn’t be as difficult as it she’d feared it could be. “Once we’re all seated, it’s just a matter of chatting, drinking. Answering their questions.”

“Wrong,” Ransom said. “I’m going to be the one asking questions.”

“That’s all well and good, too. If the mood is amiable, I’ll offer them a tour of the castle. I’ll lead, of course, and you can bring up the rear. Once we’ve returned to the great hall, it will probably be time for dinner.”

In an instant, Ransom’s demeanor changed entirely.

Izzy’s heart sank. She’d been hoping he would take this well. But it would seem she’d hoped in vain.

He frowned. “What do you mean, dinner?”

Damn it to hell. Ransom hadn’t counted on this.

“Why does there need to be a dinner?”

“With any luck, there won’t be a need,” she said. “But we must be prepared for the possibility. The solicitors will have traveled all this way from London. They’re going to be fatigued, hungry. We’ll probably have to offer them lodging for the night, too.”

He cursed.

“Don’t worry. I’ve planned everything, and we’ll walk through it right now. Duncan will invite us in to dinner.”

She motioned in Duncan’s direction, and the valet-cum-butler did as she asked, intoning, “Dinner is served.”

“Then you offer me your arm,” Izzy said, taking the arm in question before he’d offered it at all, “and we’ll lead the way to the dining room.”

As they walked down the corridor to the dining room, Ransom felt as though he were walking toward the gallows. Every step he took was one step closer to doom.

Dinner. Of all the things. She couldn’t have set him up for failure any better if she’d arranged for a target-shooting demonstration.

They reached the dining room. They must have been planning this out. On either side of the endless dining table stood an armored row of knights, waiting at attention in their role as footmen. He heard a wince-inducing creak as one of them shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

“I’ll suggest seats for our visitors.” She directed the costumed ladies in their oversized, dark coats to take various seats.

“You have to sit at the head of the table, of course.” She nudged Ransom toward the appropriate chair. “As hostess, I’ll need to be at the opposite end.”

In other words, miles away.

He caught her arm and pulled it, keeping her close. “We’re not doing this.”

“Please don’t panic.”

He clenched his jaw. “I don’t panic.”

“It’s fine,” she whispered. “I promise. I’ve arranged for all the courses to be served à la russe. All the courses are plated in the kitchen and served individually. No carving, no serving. It’s the newest style in France. We’ll seem fashionable.”

“I’m so glad you’ve thought this through,” he said tightly. “However—”

“The first course is soup, of course. That’s straightforward enough. For the meat course”—she motioned to one of the overgrown toy soldiers—“we have beefsteak.”

A plate appeared on the table before him.

She pulled up a chair and sat next to him.

“I understand,” she whispered. “Ransom, you can’t think I haven’t noticed that you never eat in front of us. You’ll take a bit of bread, maybe, or a sandwich. But never a proper meal. So I tried eating a meal blindfolded, managing a knife and fork by touch. I made a hash of things before getting three bites in my mouth. I do understand.”

Her voice was sweet. But she spoke to him like a damned infant. And bloody hell, she did not understand.

She took his hand and guided it around the plate. “I’ve made arrangements with Cook. Everything on your plate will be in bite-size pieces, save for the bread. Buttered roll at twelve o’clock, then beef from three to seven. Potatoes and broad beans from eight to twelve.” She put a fork in his hand. “Go on, try.”

“Izzy . . .”

She touched his shoulder. “Don’t be discouraged. I know you can do this.”

He inhaled and exhaled slowly, trying to remain calm. “I will eat when and where and how I wish. I don’t need things cut in pieces for me. I’m not a child.”

There it was, sitting on the table before him . . . All the frustrations of his life, dished up on one plate.

Here, Your Grace, have a serving of helplessness. With an accompaniment of bitter humiliation.

This—this, right here—was madness. He’d been a fool to agree to this plan. Within five minutes at the dinner table, his solicitors would see him for what he was: a blinded wretch. At best, he would be branded an invalid. At worst, he’d be institutionalized. He would lose his title, his fortune . . . possibly even his personal freedom.

And he would lose her. Any ability to protect her. Any chance to hold her tight and feel her sweet touch on his skin.

All because he couldn’t cut beefsteak in the dark. The sheer stupidity of it gutted him.

Meanwhile, the handmaidens whispered and giggled. The knights clanked in their armor. The scrape of metal on metal felt like fingernails raking through his brain.

“I’m not hungry.” He motioned toward the armored footman. “Take this away.”

No one moved.

“Take it,” he growled, “away.”

The armored idiot stepped forward and retrieved the plate. Ransom winced with each creak and clank. At the base of his skull, he felt a headache looming. It was like knowing a villain stood poised behind him with an ice pick, ready to stab at any moment.

That settled it. He was done with this. He rose from the table.

Izzy followed, stopping him before he even reached the corridor.

“It’s my fault,” she said. “I should have known better than to surprise you. I know you must be exhausted. We’re all exhausted. We can try again later. Perhaps for now, you should go upstairs and rest.”

Now he needed a nap?

That was the final indignity.

He said, “We’re done with this. All of this. Thank your Morphinians for their time, and then send them all away.”

“Send them away?” She grabbed his sleeve, holding him in place. “We can practice for as long as it takes. But we can’t give up. There’s too much at stake for us both.”