reason.”
“Angus doesnae reason.”
“Well, in this instance, he was persuaded. So long as our sessions are chaperoned, you and I may continue as we did before.”
She hmmphed and glared her suspicions at Robert. “Is that the truth, then?”
Robert examined his own boots while his lips fought a smile. Then he glanced up. “Your father did agree to allow it.”
Why did she have the feeling both men were dancing around the important bits? She hmmphed again. Her lad entered carrying a tray full of bread, cheese, thin-sliced lamb, and cups of cider. He deposited it on the center table, and Annie encouraged the men to sit.
Both moved to the sofa but continued standing. Huxley stared longingly at the food.
Annie frowned. “Well, dinnae be bashful. If ye’ve been dinin’ on Marjorie MacDonnell’s handiwork, ye’re probably famished.”
Robert leaned into his cane and cleared his throat. Huxley gestured toward the opposite sofa. “You must be seated first,” he said gently.
She blinked. Was that one of the rules? They hadn’t reached that particular subject in her Lady Lessons. Heat prickled in her neck and cheeks. “Oh.” She strode to the sofa, remembering too late that she was supposed to glide. Blast. Striving to salvage the situation, she turned upon her toes, folded her hands as though carrying a wee bird, and sank down.
Only to leap up an instant later at the piercing pain in her right buttock. “Arrgh! Bluidy pins can go to bluidy hell!”
In a flash, Huxley was beside her, running his hands over her hips and legs. “Where are you injured?” he demanded.
Annie swatted at his wandering hands. “Even I ken ye shouldnae be puttin’ yer fingers there, English.” She managed to dislodge the pin from her flesh. “Devil’s ballocks, that’s bluidy painful.”
Robert suddenly broke into a fit of coughing. Huxley glared at his friend.
“Oh, dear,” said Mrs. Baird from the doorway. “I should have warned ye about the pins.” The lovely woman glided into the room. “My deepest apologies, Miss Tulloch.” She smiled at Huxley and Robert. “Gentlemen, I hope ye’ll forgive my intrusion.”
“Of course.” Huxley straightened and bowed before introducing her to Robert.
Annie noticed he didn’t have any trouble speaking now. No, indeed, he was all polite polish. The perfect gentleman.
She glared up at him while he carried on pleasantries, explaining to Robert what a lovely shop Mrs. Baird had established in Inverness, and how remarkably knowledgeable Mrs. Baird was, and how appreciative he’d been to find such a resource without having to travel to Edinburgh.
By the time he finished his lengthy praise and they all took their seats—very carefully, in Annie’s case—Annie decided once again that she hated Mrs. Baird. Perhaps even more than before.
Mrs. Baird glided without effort. Mrs. Baird’s speech was soft and lilting, not wound up like a corkscrew. Mrs. Baird’s kindly smile put everyone at ease. Even Annie. Her manners were impeccable. Her conversation made Huxley and Robert chuckle and nod thoughtfully by turns. Her hair was yellow rather than an absurd shade of orange.
And John Huxley did not stare at Mrs. Baird as though she were some mad, wild, confounding problem he must solve. He did not go silent gaping at Mrs. Baird. He appeared perfectly charming, perfectly at ease.
Annie watched him while the trio chatted and ate her food. His eyes were livelier than she remembered, almost gleaming with excitement. Within minutes, he devoured four slices of bread piled with lamb and topped with cheese. Remarkably, he did so neatly and politely without dropping a crumb on his black riding breeches. He readily conversed between bites, charming everyone with his wit. Especially Mrs. Baird.
Were smooth hair, white teeth, and a pleasant manner all it took to gain his admiration? Apparently so.
God, she hated that woman.
“… late husband’s mother was from Nottinghamshire.” Mrs. Baird hummed her approval as she delicately sipped Annie’s cider. “Where do ye make yer home there, Mr. Conrad?”
“North of Nottingham. A lovely spot of woodlands and countryside along the River Tisenby.”
“Ah, it is splendid there. Mr. Baird and I passed through that very spot several years before he died. Have ye any relation to the Conrads of Rivermore Abbey?”
Robert paused. “Some connection, yes.”
“Then perhaps ye were acquainted with the Marquis of Mortlock. Such a noble gentleman. When Mr. Baird’s horse went lame, he lent us one from his stable.”
Again, Robert paused before speaking.