Page 66 of My Darling Mr. Darling

Still, some small and vindictive part of himself would relish the expression on Mitchell’s face for years to come.

∞∞∞

Violet wasn’t quite certain how she had ended up at the duchess’ table. It was all such a confused muddle—but then, everything was where Serena was involved. All she recalled was that Serena had arrived at the townhouse roughly an hour after Violet had concluded her class, and chattering pleasantly as she had fixed Violet’s hair, sent one of the maids for a fresh set of shoes and gloves, and gathered up their reticules. And then somehow, quite suddenly, they had been in the carriage en route to dinner.

And now here she was, seated across from John, in the middle of the soup course, while Serena prattled on about her students: how Cecily had become quite the chatterbox, or Julia's scintillating conversation. Grey, at her right, was patting his mouth with his napkin in a poorly-disguised attempt to smother his snickers as the duchess castigated John for having missed so many ‘family meals’ of late.

“I only say this because I worry for you,” the duchess said with a pout. “We hardly see you—and Alex tells me you’ve been missed at your club. Are you eating properly?”

Violet hid her own smile behind her wine glass.

With a grace that could only be borne of so long an acquaintance, John managed not to roll his eyes. “Yes, Your Grace,” he said, between sips of soup. “Idohave a housekeeper. And a cook.”

“But how am I to besure?” the duchess persisted. “Really, John. You could relieve my mind and find the time to join us for supper more frequently. Alex would eat pastries exclusively did I allow it—do tell me, does your cook see that you are regularly served vegetables?”

Violet snorted. John glared.

From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed Grey’s leg move beneath the table. Serena jerked in her seat, her eyes flying up from her soup to narrow upon her husband.

“Did you justkick—”

Grey cleared his throat to drown out Serena’s hissed inquiry, subtly canting his head toward John, who was still fending off the duchess’ well-meaning inquisition beneath a veneer of exasperated indulgence.Help him, Grey mouthed.

Serena heaved a sigh, straightening in her seat. “Your Grace,” she interjected, “I wonder if I might solicit your advice.”

“Oh?” The duchess dimpled, and John visibly relaxed at the reprieve from her attention. “I should be pleased. You know, mysonso rarely solicits my advice.”

“Iwould,” the duke replied glumly, and he used his fork to flick a flake of the filet of trout that had been served up upon his plate toward John. “Except that you always somehow manage to twist a conversation toward marriage, which makes it excessively tiring to ask you anything.” He gestured with that same fork to Violet, ostensibly to attract her attention. “She’s been trying to marry me off for years,” he said, by way of explanation. “She offered me up to you on a silver platter, admit it.”

This time it was John’s turn to smother a smile as Violet grappled desperately for speech. “I—well, I—”

“Pray continue to test my patience, my dearest son,” the duchess said sweetly, “and next time you’ll find yourself tied and stuffed as well.”

Behind the duke, a footman coughed into his fist, and though his expression remained as studiously neutral as ever, still it earned the poor man a glare from his employer—as if the duke, too, suspected that the sound had only been made to disguise amusement.

“As I was saying,” Serena said crisply, snatching back the duchess’ attention. “Soon the Season shall begin in earnest, and I think my ladies’ class is well-prepared. Violet, would you say the same for the gentlemen?”

Violet wrangled a few seconds for herself to think by shoving a bit of trout into her mouth and chewing slowly. “Well,” she hedged, once she had swallowed, “They have made great strides, indeed—”

“Some of them even in the right direction,” John muttered, spearing a bit of boiled potato.

“—And, since Mr. Mitchell has elected not to attend lately, I imagine it will be less of a trial to keep the class focused upon self-improvement.” Though Mr. Mitchell had offered no explanation for his absence, Violet could not help but to have noticed that the very air itself had seemed cleaner without his presence, unpolluted by his argumentative air which had threatened several times to wrest control of the class from her.

“Mr. Mitchell?” the duchess repeated, her green eyes drifting back to John. “Isn’t he the one who—”

“Yes,” John said shortly, stabbing a bite of asparagus with rather more force than he had the potato.

“And did not he so desire that you—”

“Again,yes,” John bit off, but his gaze flicked to Violet and darted away, almost guiltily.

“Well,” the duchess huffed, settling back in her seat, like a bird returning to its nest, visibly relaxing. “I must say, I’m much relieved that you did not.”

Did notwhat?

Several sets of eyes fell upon Violet with the weight of blow, and she realized belatedly that she had spoken the question aloud. Across the table, John heaved a great sigh, his lips compressing into a firm line.

“Mr. Mitchell and his sister each own a partial interest in the American shipping line founded by their grandfather. He approached me ages ago, via correspondence, with the suggestion of a contract between us, but I declined his offer.” He dragged the tines of his fork through a small pile of new green peas, cooked in a butter cream sauce. “However, that was hardly his last attempt. More recently, he thought to sweeten the deal by offering a merger instead, and throwing in his sister for a wife, which would effectively offermepartial ownership—though not, of course, controlling interest.”