Page 22 of Duke of Eccess (Seven Dukes of Sin #4)

Everyone froze, save for James, who kept shoveling the soup into his mouth as though it was his last meal.

A sentiment Octavius understood so well.

“She did,” said James through a mouthful. “I remember.”

Tears welled in Sophie’s big eyes. “I don’t. Is that wrong?”

Miss Fields reached out and squeezed the girl’s hand. “No, it’s not, Sophie. Not at all. You’re only eight. It’s natural you don’t remember as many details as James and Margaret. But you must miss your parents as much as your brother and sister do. I know I miss my papa terribly.”

Octavius’s heart wrenched in his chest. He couldn’t imagine what it would feel like, to miss his father.

His mother—yes. Even though she had abandoned him.

The anniversary of that momentous event that had split his life in two was coming up.

A raw pain twisted in his chest. He needed a stiff drink.

The whole bottle, damn it! Octavius knew he shouldn’t be craving it, but he needed an escape and there was none, save for the white soup.

And so despite Sophie and the other children being clearly in turmoil, he resumed his meager pleasure.

“What do you remember, Sophie?” asked Miss Fields softly.

The child glanced at Octavius shyly, then back at her plate. “Mama’s singing, talking French to me. Papa’s laughter. Teaching me chess.”

“Julius was an excellent chess player,” murmured Octavius before he could stop himself.

“I never stood a chance against him.” His gaze landed on James, who eyed him with great intensity.

He needed to change the subject. Pain meant he needed distraction.

Food. Drink. Company. Humor. And yet he continued, “He was also an excellent jester, your papa. I know you inherited it from him. I understand Cook found a rather unexpected visitor in her bedchamber last night.”

James suddenly found the white soup very interesting and delicious again as he resumed eating spoon after spoon quickly.

“Next time, perhaps introduce them properly first? ‘Cook, this is Mr. Mouse. Mr. Mouse, this is Cook, who will now scream so loud she will wake up all Mayfair.’”

To his utter delight, everyone including James burst out in laughter.

“If you can manage to keep your experiments confined to proper locations,” said Miss Fields severely, though with a wry smile, “and if you all continue being such dedicated students, I’ll take all three of you to the Marvels of Electricity at the Egyptian Hall in five days. If his grace doesn’t mind, of course.”

The children gasped in awed shock, and even James’s face lit up with interest. Sophie nodded enthusiastically, while Margaret corrected her posture to resemble a little duchess even more.

Octavius’s chest expanded as he looked around the lit-up faces of the children.

How did Miss Fields know just the right things to say?

Now, if only he could marshal his thoughts into eloquent speech…

“I am very proud of the three of you, and the great progress you’ve made.

James, your interest in mechanisms is commendable, and your mathematical skills, Margaret, are truly impressive.

And Sophie, your French pronunciation has become absolutely flawless.

You sound as though you were born in Paris.

You should all be very proud of the progress you’ve made with the help of Miss Fields. ”

Sophie beamed and raised her spoonful of soup. “ Ceci est absolument délicieux! ” she said with such a splendid French accent, she could, indeed, have been raised in France.

“I’m pleased you approve, Sophie, and that you chose to share the more polite French phrases you’ve acquired,” Octavius said.

Sophie asked innocently, “You mean instead of when I said va te faire fou ? — ”

Octavius looked at his butler and interrupted quickly, “We’re ready for the turbot, Jacobs.”

While the footmen cleared the plates, Margaret leaned towards Sophie and corrected the way she held her soup spoon. Octavius’s stomach turned uncomfortably as he remembered the way his own childhood had been full of unhappy remarks from his father, who was never satisfied with his manners.

He chuckled. “You know, Margaret, I believe you would make an excellent duchess one day if you wish to marry a duke. My steward would tremble before your organizational prowess.”

Margaret straightened her back further, clearly trying not to look pleased. “Someone must maintain standards.”

“Indeed. Perhaps you could start with my account books?”

Everyone chuckled, but Margaret’s eyes remained on him. “Are you serious, Your Grace?”

He smiled. “Keep up your hard work and I will be.”

The plates of turbot with lobster sauce, the second half of the first course, were put in front of them, and Octavius’s mouth watered.

He was glad to have asked Cook to plate up in the kitchen to reduce the number of servants in the dining room.

His spirits were lifted even further in anticipation of one of his favorite dishes.

As he tried the first bite, he had to stop a moan.

The fish was perfectly fresh and soft, melting on his tongue and mixing with the creamy taste of buttery lobster and shrimp.

His cook Mrs. Stevenson was his favorite person in the world.

He allowed his senses to feast, swimming in the heavenly blend of pure indulgence.

The only missing part was wine. A crisp Riesling from the Rhine would make this truly orgasmic.

But Miss Fields was free to enjoy the wine, and he could live vicariously through her. When he lifted his gaze to her, she ate with perfect precision and her glass of wine remained untouched.

A travesty.

Octavius frowned. “Miss Fields, you’ve barely tasted your wine. Should I be offended?”

Her gaze met his across the table. “I prefer to maintain my faculties, Your Grace. Besides, I shouldn’t enjoy wine when you choose not to.”

He looked critically at her plate. His fish was already gone. Hers looked like she’d had three bites. “Do you intend to sustain yourself on naught but air and propriety?”

“I find excess rarely improves anything.”

“How fortunate I am to have you provide reminders of my personal failings.”

She lifted one eyebrow. “Consider it my contribution to your moral improvement.”

Oh, she could contribute to his moral improvements any time of day with that sweet, smart mouth of hers.

The challenge in her eyes combined with a pretty blush on her high cheekbones had yet another sort of pleasure bloom right in the middle of Octavius’s gut, making him feel like he was about to take flight—a strange sensation he could only compare to the effect of the finest of champagne.

He had to tense his lips to stop a smile.

Margaret laid her fork on the table. “What are your favorite dishes, Miss Fields?”

Miss Fields shook her head. “My papa believed meals were for nourishment, not indulgence. I’m afraid I don’t have one.”

Sophie, who’d already devoured her own fish, stared in shock. “You don’t have a favorite dish?”

James scoffed. “No doubt the fish is not to your liking.”

Miss Fields cleared her throat. “Not at all! It’s perfectly adequate—I mean, delicious.”

His cook’s turbot in lobster sauce was adequate ? Surely not. Not on his life!

He’d show her what she was missing. If her papa had fed her mere nourishment while disregarding the bliss of flavor, Octavius would introduce her to the delights of truly savoring her food.

Not in the presence of children, though. He would have to add another dessert. A special dessert.

He called Jacobs and murmured his instructions for Cook. The rest of the evening passed very pleasantly, indeed, but when the children were sent to their beds and Miss Fields stood up assuming she’d leave, too, Octavius stopped her.

“Please stay, Miss Fields,” he said, reaching out to her with his hand over the surface of the table. “Mrs. Davies will help them prepare for bed.”

She sat back down, alert painted across her face. “May I be of assistance, Your Grace?”

“You most certainly may,” Octavius replied, his stomach buzzing with anticipation as the footman brought in the selection of desserts and wines he’d specifically ordered for her.

As per his instruction the plates were put on the table, and Miss Fields’s gaze filled with confusion as she took in the food.

“Leave us,” he threw across his shoulder, and the barely audible shuffle of feet told him the footmen and butler had done as he asked. As the door closed and he and Miss Fields were alone, the room plunged into a tense silence like a charge of lightning at the edges of his hair.

Octavius rose and walked to the other side of the table, settling at the head of it beside her, their knees nearly touching beneath the wood. Her gaze clung to him, pupils dark with something he couldn’t define.

He was confused about his own feelings, though he liked them enough and couldn’t quash them if he tried.

He was usually numb with women; oh, he liked sharing pleasure, but it was mostly for his own benefit.

As long as it dulled his internal turmoil and the voices that made him feel like less than dirt, he was content.

Now he wanted to please her. Wanted to show her what she was missing with her impossibly small bites and her being so…so…puritan, so…correct all the time.

Octavius wanted to see the blush on her cheeks that he’d seen after he’d kissed her, wanted to see her pristine hair tousled, her lips swollen and glistening.

He wanted to see her unable to keep her eyes open as they rolled back with bliss, wanted to hear that moan that came from such ecstasy nothing couldn’t stop it.

And he was going to get what he wanted.

“You’ve been the spitting image of your name,” he said as he poured crisp white wine into a glass for her. “Temperance. Not a drop of pleasure allowed yourself, even though tonight was all about pleasure.”

Miss Field frowned as she studied the wine swirling in the glass.