a fingertip across a knife, taking a chance that he might be cut, and welcoming the wound.
“And you agreed to her terms,” Holloway said thoughtfully.
“Contrary to certain people’s opinions,” Noel replied, “I’m not a slavering beast, roaming the countryside in search of damsels to defile.” He smiled to himself, thinking of how she had called him “Your Grace, the wolf.” He was hungry for her, like a wolf. “I will give her as much time as she needs. And if she ultimately decides she doesn’t want me, so be it.”
McCameron braced his arms on the table, his expression turning serious. “You’ll survive. I have it on good authority.”
Noel and Holloway shared a quick look. Two years had passed since McCameron had received word on the eve of Waterloo that the woman waiting for him back home had married someone else. McCameron had returned from war with several visible scars and, Noel suspected, an invisible one on his heart.
“I will,” Noel said. “No man ever died from blue bollocks.”
“Actually,” Holloway threw in, riffling through the pages of his notebook, “there are several cultures that believe lack of sexual congress saps a warrior’s powers, which might lead to his defeat on the battlefield. In fact, I have notations here—”
“Fortunate for you, I’m wearing my favorite boots,” McCameron said, “else I’d chuck one at you.”
“My feet are bigger,” Holloway retorted. “I’ll brain you with my shoe.”
“Enough talk.” Noel pointed at McCameron and then at Holloway. “You two. Arm wrestle. It’s the only way to settle this.”
McCameron shrugged, then planted his elbow on the table. Holloway pushed up his sleeve and clasped McCameron’s hand, revealing a muscled forearm. Though Holloway was a scholar of anthropology, he kept himself physically fit. “I accept the challenge.”
The two began to wrestle in earnest. As they did, Noel got to his feet.
“All right, blokes,” he announced to the room, “we’re now accepting wagers. Decorated veteran versus acclaimed but oddly robust scholar.” The other patrons of the chophouse couldn’t resist a contest, and soon the table was ringed with cheering men.
Chuckling, Noel folded his arms across his chest as he watched Holloway and McCameron turn red from exertion. Thank God for them, these ridiculous buffoons he loved so dearly.
Chapter 9
“Ah, Lady Whitfield.”
Jess turned as Lord Prowse approached her, Baron Mentmore trailing after him. The morning presentations had yet to begin, and nearly everyone had assembled in Lord Trask’s drawing room.
The duke was not in attendance.
Which was perfectly fine. She didn’t need to keep looking toward the door, or strain for the sound of his distinctively solid but assured tread on the stairs. When he arrived, he arrived, and she would not notice each minute he was absent.
“Your insight is welcome,” Lord Prowse said. “If you’d be so kind.”
“My lords, I would be happy to assist you.” She regarded both noblemen, who looked at her eagerly. “Please tell me what requires my expertise.”
“It’s only that Mentmore thinks grain is a poor investment, and I am positive there is always money to be made in agriculture. Which of us is correct?”
“The answer isn’t so easy. Taking into consideration the poor harvests from last year . . .” As she talked, mentally Jess gave a wry smile. As Jessica McGale, hired companion, these men would never have pressed her for an opinion on anything, let alone something as weighty as finances, and yet, believing her to be Lady Whitfield, her thoughts had weight and meaning.
Being listened to, being truly heard—she could easily get used to it.
While she spoke, Baron Mentmore and Lord Prowse nodded. The baron actually wrote in a notebook, his hand moving quickly across the page as it appeared he transcribed what she said.
It was a topic on which she could speak at length, and with considerable enthusiasm.
Quick but strong footsteps came up the stairs, and then she felt him enter the room. He spoke in a low voice to Lord Trask.
“And when factoring in the need for . . . for . . . grain abroad, you . . .” She shook her head. “Forgive me, my lords. My thoughts have suddenly scattered.”
“Good morning, my lords. Lady Whitfield.” The duke’s voice came from just behind her. “You’re looking very studious, Mentmore.”
The baron held up his notebook. “Lady Whitfield was kind enough to oblige us with her thoughts on the growth and exportation of grain.”
There was no help for it. She had to face him, if only to see that astonishingly handsome face of his. The warm appreciation in his