The Girl is Not For Christmas - Emma V Leech Page 0,45
bird pieces of bread and jam. Mr Moon was taking the tasty morsels with a delicate, fastidious beak, and looked as if butter wouldn’t melt, or whatever the crow equivalent was…worms wouldn’t dissolve?
“Yes, he’s a danger to society,” she said dryly.
King glared at her and pulled out a chair, sitting down in it whilst keeping the monstrous bird in his line of sight.
“Is that an Obaldeston, my lord?” the oldest of the children asked him, regarding King’s cravat with a covetous eye.
King dared tear his gaze from the attack bird for a moment to look at… Henry? Harvey? No… Harry. That was it.
“Certainly not. Far too fussy. It’s a barrel knot.”
“Father says you’re the most stylish man in the ton and that everyone in town copies you.”
Though the why of it escaped him, King felt a stab of discomfort at being described thus before Miss Penrose. It wasn’t as if she didn’t know he was a fribble and a fearful waste of space, after all. It was just, if one was committed to going to the devil, King didn’t see why one ought not do the thing in style. Except, now he’d changed his mind about destroying his life through dissipation and vice, he felt rather a fool for having got so close to doing so.
Harry gave a wistful sigh. “I’ve almost mastered the Trone d’amour.”
King gave the boy’s mangled neckcloth a doubtful glance, but kept his mouth shut. “I shouldn’t bother. It’ll make you look a right pillock. All you need is the barrel knot, the ballroom and, perhaps for a change of scene, the oriental.”
King saw the slump of Harry’s shoulders and had a vivid and unwelcome recollection of being fourteen, in awe of everyone who seemed to be far better at being a man than he was, and living in utter terror of his father. Some sense of fellow feeling prompted him.
“If you come to my room before dinner tonight, I’ll show you. If you like.”
The boy’s eyes grew wide with astonishment. “Oh, would you, sir? I… Oh, goodness, that… that would be marvellous.”
King nodded, experiencing a strange little glow of pleasure at the boy’s enthusiasm and gratitude.
Harry pushed to his feet, breakfast forgotten. “I’ll see how many cravats I can muster. They… well, they aren’t starched or… or terribly….”
King waved him off. “It’s of no matter. I’ll give you a couple of mine to practise with. Walsh always brings more than I could possibly need.”
“Gosh,” the boy said, his ears growing pink with pleasure. “I say… Thank you, my lord.”
“Call me King,” King said, smiling at the lad. “Everyone does.”
Harry seemed to grow about a foot in height, his shoulders going back. “I should be honoured to, my lor… King.”
He walked out of the breakfast parlour with his head held high, only spoiling the effect once out of sight with an audible yip of excitement that echoed down the hallway.
“Thank you.”
King turned to see Livvy regarding him with a rather unsettling misty expression.
He shrugged, concentrating on buttering the roll he’d taken, and wished his hands were steadier this morning.
“No, really, King. Poor Harry, he’s… he’s such a lovely young man, but painfully aware of… oh, of everything. Of the way his cuffs are fraying and he’s growing out of his clothes, and… and his father doesn’t seem to notice.”
There was a bitter note to her words and a great deal of obvious frustration.
King hesitated, not knowing what to say. It was apparent the family were in financial difficulties, but one did not discuss such things, certainly not over breakfast.
And yet….
“Are things very bad?”
Livvy shrugged and lowered her voice so the children did not hear her words. “The house is entailed, at least but… Oh, well, you can see for yourself the place is falling down around us. My brother made some… unwise investments, but… but he has debts too, and….”
To his horror, her voice quavered, and she closed her mouth, blinking rapidly.
“Liv… Miss Penrose,” he began, horrified to think she might cry at the breakfast table.
“Oh, dear,” she said, forcing a laugh. “How horrid of me to subject you to such a scene before you’ve even broken your fast. No wonder you think me such a trial.”
I don’t think you’re a trial. I think you’re….
Thankfully, he stopped himself before he said the words out loud, or even in his head, but the effort left him shakier than ever and all on edge. What was happening to him? God, he needed a bloody drink.