A server presented a platter of what had to be the thinnest slices of ham Jess had ever beheld. With great ceremony, the server set the platter down and backed away.
“May I serve you?” Noel asked, his voice low and dark. “I’d enjoy it very much.”
“Yes, please,” she answered breathlessly.
As if from a great distance away, she heard Mr. Walditch talking with Lord Sundon. Neither of them seemed to be aware of the conversation happening beside them. Or they did notice, and opted not to involve themselves.
“You’re a star attraction.” She glanced toward a trio of perambulators, two women and a man. All three of them sent Noel clear looks of longing. And they weren’t the only passersby that showed him interest.
Yet Noel’s attention remained fixed on her. As he leaned back in his chair, his gaze didn’t waver from her face. “Tell me your favorite book.”
“Why?”
“I’m collecting pieces of you, like a beachcomber looking for polished stones and beautiful shells. Later, when they’re home, far inland, they can look at those stones and shells and remember.”
She pressed a hand to the pulse fluttering in her neck. “I’d no idea dukes were poetical.”
“When suitably motivated.”
“The answer depends,” she said. “Sometimes it’s Smith’s Wealth of Nations. It isn’t my favorite, per se, but I can read it over and over again and find something new every time.” Her copy of the book was much battered, several of the pages loose in the binding. She had to secure the whole thing with twine.
He gave her a lopsided smile. “And what about when you’re not in the mood for economic theory?”
She’d made use of Lady Catherton’s library, and had inhaled the works of Shakespeare. “As You Like It. I know it’s a play and not exactly a book, but I’ve never had the chance to see it performed, so I only know it from reading.”
“It’s Rosalind’s story,” he said with a nod. “Everyone else is just a plaything for her to toy with. She deserves better than Orlando.”
She propped her chin in her hand. “Does anyone truly deserve her?”
“No,” he said thoughtfully, “but they can try.” His look scorched her. “There’s certainly pleasure in the attempt.”
She tipped up her chin, a wordless dare. “And your favorite book?”
“Here, now,” Mr. Walditch interjected. “If you’re both going to discuss books in the middle of Vauxhall, I’m going to have the bully boys throw you out.”
Jess laughed, delightfully scandalized by Mr. Walditch’s threat to a duke.
Noel chuckled and held up his palms. “Fair enough. Tonight’s for pleasure, and I’m determined Lady Whitfield will have more than her share of it.”
Oh, help.
Mr. Walditch shook his head before dividing his attention between his plate of cold meat and conversation with Lord Sundon.
Jess turned her attention to the people walking past the supper boxes. She easily spotted the companions. Here and there in the crowd, there were women in plainer dress, trailing behind women in elegant silk, their gazes trained on the ladies they were paid to serve. The in-between women, neither fully servant nor part of the family. They were required only because others found them useful, but their own wishes, their own desires, those were covered in holland cloth and forgotten in dusty rooms.
Wanting Noel—and she did want him—was wrong. It was selfish to put her needs before her family’s. And yet, and yet . . .
Wasn’t there one thing for herself? Not forever, not even for a day, but perhaps just a single hour that belonged to her alone? Couldn’t she have that?
“I can tell when you’re thinking because the smallest crease appears between your brows,” he murmured. “Just here.” He moved to touch his fingertip to that same spot, but caught himself and dropped his hand.
“Gentlemen do not point out women’s wrinkles.” Her words were censorious, but her tone was playful.
“I don’t consider them wrinkles. They’re lines on your map, leading me to all your mysterious territory.”
Her heart thudded, but she said, “Recall what maps used to say—here be dragons. You don’t know what my dragons might be, or if you can slay them.”
“I don’t want to slay your dragons. I want to feed them apples and make friends with them.”
“Dragons aren’t horses,” she felt obliged to point out. “They don’t eat apples.”
“Then I’ll feed them sheep or virginal lads, or whatever it is dragons eat. Though, I imagine that virginal lads don’t taste very good. Ropy and chewy and