that was perfectly polite. As though he hadn’t fucked her with his hand and made her come like a goddess. As if he hadn’t broken her heart this morning in Covent Garden Market.
“Passable, Your Grace.” She reached for a fork to serve herself slices of roast beef.
“Allow me.” His hand covered and stilled hers.
She almost told him not to bother because she absolutely could not eat a mouthful, not when he touched her and made her head spin. Instead, she merely nodded and yielded the fork to him. She watched his hand as he set a few slices of meat onto her plate, wishing she could look at something else because his hands truly were gorgeous and masculine.
“Thank you for attending to me,” she murmured.
His eyes darkened, and it was as though they were back in the humid conservatory and he was telling her how much he, her servant, wanted to lick her quim.
Quickly as she could, she dished up more of her luncheon, then, with a last look at Noel, seated herself at the table beside Mr. Walditch. Lord Pickhill immediately occupied the empty chair beside her.
As if the guests had wordlessly conferred, no one took the seat at the head of the table. It seemed fitting that Noel should sit there, as though even in Lord Trask’s home he was in command of everything.
Quiet fell as everyone ate, and she saw that her moment had come.
“I’ve a letter from the soap manufacturers, Baron Mentmore.” She glanced around the table with a look of apology. “But I shan’t disrupt everyone’s luncheon with its contents. We can discuss it later—though it was rather fascinating.”
“Don’t keep us in suspense, Lady Whitfield,” Mr. Walditch said before the baron could speak. “This saga has been rather intriguing.”
“I don’t want to hear about it,” Lord Prowse grumbled.
“Then pay attention to your roast and cover your ears,” Lady Farris said tartly, “because I’m also interested in what Lady Whitfield learned.”
“There are more of us who want to hear than don’t,” Baron Mentmore encouraged. “Do go on. If that’s all right, Lord Trask.”
Jess barely breathed as she waited, fearing that the marquess would object to her bringing in an outside business.
Their host made a noncommittal wave of his hand, and she let out a long but silent exhalation.
She shot a look toward Noel—though he continued to eat his meal, he had his head tilted in the posture she’d come to learn signified he was paying attention.
“As you heard,” she said, “recently there was an accident that burned down several of their structures and cost them the use of much of their manufacturing equipment. This was all confirmed to me by Miss Cynthia McGale.”
Lady Farris winced. “Terrible misfortune.”
Several others around the table made murmurs of agreement.
“They are indeed in need of funds to rebuild and refurbish,” Jess continued. “With enough investment capital, they could improve their operations—meet a greater demand if they were to sell their product here in London.”
“Is it worth it to pour capital into a business that may or may not be able to resurrect itself?” Viscount Hunsdon asked.
“It might be an opportunity to take what was a small operation and transform it,” Jess said. “Modernize it, whilst they continue to create a quality product.”
“Fair point,” Mr. Walditch said with a thoughtful nod. “It’s not my usual avenue of investment, but your point about Brummell was well made. More baths mean more soap.”
Hopefully, the lull in the conversation meant that everyone was contemplating the benefit of investing in McGale & McGale.
“A trip is in order,” Noel said suddenly.
“Your Grace?” Mr. Walditch asked.
“Why not?” Noel looked around the table. “If the operation is in Wiltshire, it’s a day’s ride from one of my Hampshire estates. What’s the village, Lady Whitfield?”
She blinked, slightly dazed at the sudden turn in her plan. “Honiton.”
“I’ve heard of it,” he said. “It’s less than a day from Carriford. Anyone interested in learning more about this McGale & McGale can journey with me to Carriford. Allow me to treat you to some of my justifiably celebrated hospitality,” he added with a crooked smile. “Spend the night there, then onward the next day to visit the soap makers. We gather our intelligence about them, then return to Carriford, and then”—he slapped his hand on his thigh like a man making a decisive plan—“back to London.”
Panic was Jess’s first reaction. This was not what she’d planned. They hadn’t made arrangements at the farm for visitors, and certainly not ones who held the future