Free The Painted Lady by Bárbara Metzger

Bannister.”
    “Are ... are you flirting with me, Your Grace?”
    Kasey placed his hands over his heart and grinned at her. “Never, my dear. That would cause too much Turbulence.”
     

Chapter Eight
     
    Sir Osgood eschewed excitement with a vengeance. He began Kasey’s course of mind-quieting moderation at dinner that evening. The doctor’s saying of grace was so long Kasey could see the clear soup cooling in front of him. Osgood praised the Provider more profusely, in fact, than Kasey deemed the meal deserved. Boiled beef was followed by boiled mutton and boiled chicken. With boiled vegetables alongside. Then a boiled pudding.
    Dinner conversation was just as bland, consisting of amen, and please pass the—only there was no salt. Seven grains of the stuff reposed on a tiny salver in front of each diner, for Sir Osgood deemed salt unhealthful, too.
    Ah well, Kasey thought, he could stand to lose a few pounds. London during the Season was overflowing with rich foods and heavy sauces, and the Christmas holidays would be worse, with all the festive fare and parties at which to enjoy it. Caswell’s own chef was an artist of the spice shelf, flavoring each dish with palate-pleasing panache. The only thing appealing here was the peas.
    Miss Bannister did not have an ounce to lose, he considered, without appearing on the verge of starvation. Lady Edgecombe, on the other hand, and on his other side at the small table, was remarkably well padded for a woman on such a plain diet. He watched her take a second serving of an unidentifiable, liquid dish.
    She caught his gaze and said, “It doesn’t get any better later, you know.” The pressure against his ankle, though, promised that it did.
    That sure as Hades was not Miss Bannister playing touch-me under the table, and Sir Osgood was too far away, frowning at the viscountess. Lady Edgecombe had changed for dinner into a cerise lutestring gown whose neckline would have been daring at a London gathering. At a country dinner, it was nearly indecent except for the scrap of lace hastily and, to judge from the lady’s earlier petulance, unhappily added. She was also disgruntled because Sir Osgood had not let her quiz the new arrival about life in Town.
    “His Grace has left the city to get away from the noxious fumes there, both of the coal fires and the gossip,” Bannister had said, clearing his throat. “We shall not be reminding him, Lady Edgecombe.”
    Obviously the threat of being returned to her husband’s care—or worse—held great sway with the viscountess, at least while Sir Osgood was present, for she had since addressed herself to her meal, not the duke. Some few years older than he was, Kasey surmised, the lady was ripe for an affair. Overripe. He moved his legs away, accidentally brushing against Miss Bannister’s foot. Well, it was almost an accident. She dropped her fork.
    “My apologies.”
    She colored up, her uncle cleared his throat, and Lady Edgecombe scowled. Kasey smiled. Dinner was not going to be half as dull as he had feared.
    After the meal, fruit and nuts were served. Kasey savored a juicy, crisp apple, until he noticed Sir Osgood’s frown. His Grace tried to eat more quietly, with less enjoyment, lest he be given nothing but soft, mushy pears tomorrow. He hated pears.
    The ladies never got up to leave the men alone over coffee. What for? There was no coffee. There would certainly be no cigars or pipes or brandy, and no vulgar discussions of wine and wagers and women. No, there was a walk.
    In the cold? In the dark?
    One needed the exercise to digest dinner properly, Sir Osgood explained, as the foursome trooped back and forth on the flagged terrace, where lanterns made sure they did not tumble off into the rosebushes. Lady Edgecombe claimed Kasey’s arm and started asking about fashions and friends and Prinny’s latest flirts.
    “Ahem. I think we have had enough exercise,” Sir Osgood declared, leading his company back toward the drawing