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But there was no cook to shoo Miss Peacock away.

Clara glanced about. Ought she take the butter knife from one of the empty spaces next to her? No—the look of relish in Miss Peacock’s eyes told her that it was best to remain still and go hungry.

As if in protest, Clara’s stomach growled again.

Then a deep male voice spoke.

“Allow me.”

Clara looked up, and her belly flipped as she saw a pair of dark-green eyes focused on her.

He gestured to the empty seat. “May I?”

She nodded, and he sat, the chair creaking beneath his huge frame. He reached for his butter knife and handed it to her.

“Very charitable, I’m sure, Mr. McTavish,” Miss Peacock said. “But Miss Martingale doesn’t appear to be hungry.”

“Well, I am,” he said.

He reached toward the plate in the center of the table and picked up a chicken thigh with his hands.

Miss Peacock gasped as he tore a piece of meat off the bone with his teeth. He continued to eat, while the remainder of the table stared, then he placed the bone on his side plate.

“Delicious,” he said. “Food is best eaten with fingers to enjoy it to the full. What say ye, Miss Martingale?”

“I…” Clara hesitated, aware of Miss Peacock’s gaze on her.

“It’s more considerate, also,” he continued, picking up another piece. “I fail to see why we should create extra work for the servants by dirtying cutlery when our fingers were made for just such a purpose. Miss Martingale, ye must try this chicken.”

He offered the piece to her and winked.

Clara took it, then nibbled at the chicken.

“There’s a flaw in your argument, Mr. McTavish,” Miss Peacock said, when Clara had finished the chicken and set the bone aside. “Fingers, as well as forks, need to be cleaned.”

“We can do that ourselves, Miss Peacock.” He licked his fingers, running the tip of his tongue along the length, before slipping them inside his mouth.

His eyes sparkled with pleasure as he fixed his emerald gaze on Clara, and she shifted her position as a wicked heat coursed through her.

“Miss Martingale will ye join me?” he said, his voice a low rasp.

Clara glanced across the dining room to where her parents sat with Lady Cholmondeley, but they were deep in conversation. Encouraged by her companion’s smile, she slipped her fingers into her mouth.

“Oh, that’s good , Miss Martingale,” he said.

“ I don’t think so,” Miss Peacock huffed.

Miss Goodchild giggled and reached for a piece of chicken.

“Marion!” Miss Peacock said. “Would you indulge in the habits of urchins?”

“You must admit it’s easier, Louise,” Miss Goodchild said.

Miss Peacock picked up the serving spoons. She scooped up a piece of chicken, which slipped and fell onto the table.

Clara’s companion chuckled. “Miss Peacock is in need of a little more practice at the dinner table.”

Miss Goodchild let out a snort that turned into a cough, and she reached for her glass.

Miss Peacock’s cheeks reddened, and she rose to her feet.

“Aren’t you staying for dessert, Louise?” Miss Goodchild asked.

“I’m no longer hungry, Marion. I cannot eat in the company of those who lack self-control. I find myself in need of a little air and would suggest that your constitution would benefit from it. Come, ladies—let us leave these… people .”

A number of the young ladies rose, and Miss Peacock stared at Miss Goodchild.

“Are you coming?”

“What, and miss Lady Cholmondeley’s syllabub?”

“There’s more important things than syllabub ,” Miss Peacock said.

A footman approached with a tray of glass bowls filled with a pale-lemon-colored dessert and set one in front of each place setting. Miss Goodchild’s eyes widened, and she picked up her spoon and dipped it in.

Mr. McTavish let out a laugh. “I daresay there are more important things than syllabub—but not at this precise moment.”

Miss Peacock exited the dining room, followed by several others. Miss Goodchild, who’d finished her syllabub, turned her gaze to the bowl at Miss Peacock’s now-empty place.

“Take it, Miss Goodchild,” Mr. McTavish said.

She shook her head. “It wouldn’t be proper.”

“Ye want it, don’t ye?”

“Of course,” she replied. “Lady Cholmondeley’s syllabub is the best in the county, and I’ve been looking forward to it all evening.”

“But?”

She blushed. “Louise says I eat too much.”

“And she eats too little,” he said. “What’s the point in living if ye cannot indulge in a little…pleasure?”

Clara’s body pulsed with anticipation as he curled his tongue around the last word. Then he pushed Miss Peacock’s bowl toward Miss Goodchild, swapping it with her empty bowl.

“There!” he said. “It’s yers now to enjoy.”

“What if Miss Peacock returns?”

“I doubt she’d take as much enjoyment from it as ye, Miss Goodchild—and a good meal should always be relished.”

He picked up Clara’s spoon and placed it in her hand, curling her fingers around until her hand was engulfed in his.

Unlike the smooth hands of Society gentlemen, his were rough, with callouses that abraded deliciously against her skin.

They were the hands of a savage, a man used to toil—a man who had no time for the niceties of Society.

Yet, unlike the genteel creatures here tonight, he was the only one who’d noticed her distress and come to her aid.

Her champion.

He leaned close, his breath tickling her neck as he lowered his voice to a whisper.

“Now, Miss Martingale, it’s time for yer pleasure.”

His voice, thick with seduction, vibrated through her bones until her senses were thrumming with anticipation.

“M-my pleasure?”

“Oh, yes,” he growled as he guided her hand to her bowl and dipped her spoon in, lifting out a spoonful of the creamy dessert.

Then he moved the spoon to her lips.

“Eat,” he said. “Open for me.”

Oh my!

Clara glanced about the room—surely the company would see, merely from her face, what scandalous sensations he was eliciting.

But they were occupied elsewhere—Miss Goodchild with what looked like her third bowl of syllabub, Corn and Nate laughing together, and her parents deep in conversation, with eyes only for each other.

“Eyes on me , lass.”

Her body resonated with his low command, and she met his gaze while she slipped the spoon into her mouth. The flavor burst on her tongue—the tang of lemon, balanced by the creamy, smooth sweetness—and she let out a groan.

“Do ye take pleasure at my hand?”

She drew in a sharp breath. His potency assaulted her senses—the spicy scent of man, his low voice vibrating through her center, and his strong, firm hand. How was it that a man could elicit such a desire to yield on a first acquaintance?

“I—I cannot…”

He released her hand and withdrew, and she fought the sense of loss.

“Forgive me, Miss Martingale,” he said. “Miss Peacock is right—I’m a savage compared to the company tonight.”

“As am I,” Clara said, dipping her spoon into her dessert once more.

“But I’d be false if I said that I wouldn’t take immense pleasure from feeding ye each bite of that dessert.”

She closed her eyes, battling the primal desire thickening in her belly.

He leaned back. “It’s too intimate an act to perform in public—but I enjoy many such intimate acts.”

“Such as?” Clara asked before she could stop herself.

He let out a low growl. “Oh, Miss Martingale, ye shouldn’t ask a question if ye’re not prepared to hear the answer.”

The ache between her legs intensified and she squeezed her thighs together.

His nostrils flared, as if he scented her need, and shame engulfed her.

Then she glanced up and saw her mother staring across the dining room, her sharp, insightful gaze fixed on Clara.

Mama loved her dearly, but even she’d be shocked at the wicked thoughts in Clara’s mind.

Then Mama glanced at Clara’s companion and her gaze darkened with disapproval.

Mama wanted her to marry a gentleman—to lift her from the life of savagery she’d been raised in.

The man next to her—the only man for whom she felt any interest—was doubtless the very last man Mama would want to associate with her.

And the last thing Clara wanted to do was disappoint the mother who loved her more than life—the woman who had sacrificed everything for her.