Free The Ravencliff Bride by Dawn Thompson Page B

through with a rush of hot blood. Her earlobes were on fire. He turned, and she buried her gaze in her plate.
    “Sara,” he said, taking his seat at the opposite end of the table, “about last night—”
    “I do not wish to discuss last night, Nicholas,” she interrupted. “You made your position quite plain, and I believe I have also. We can leave it at that, and get on with this, or drag it out to no practical purpose.”
    “Very well,” he said, attacking the food on his plate.
    Oh, so you don’t like being silenced, Baron Walraven
, she noted with smug satisfaction.
Well, you began this charade, and one should never begin something one cannot finish
. Her food had flavor again. This was the way to handle the brute, but she’d only just begun.
    “I have a few ‘ground rules’ of my own that I should like to lay down before we go further,” she said, dissecting her baked tomato.
    “Not here,” he said, nodding toward the footmen presiding over the buffet.
    “Yes, here,” she responded, leaning back while more coffee was poured into her cup. “My ground rules are quite pedestrian in nature compared to yours. They concern the servants, actually. They needn’t only be aired behind closed study doors.” The last was delivered dramatically, over the rim of her coffee cup.
    “Sara—”
    “Now then, where was I?” she intoned. “Oh yes, my ground rules. First off, if I am to hostess your affairs I shall have to have free rein to do so. That means I shall have to interview your cook in regard to the menus, Mrs. Bromley in regard to the china and linens, fresh flowers, and the like, and the footmen, of course, to be sure that things run smoothly.”
    “Of course,” Nicholas responded, his voice thin, and dejected.
    “Second to that, but no less important,” she continued, “I shall need to be provided with a list of your guests’ likes anddislikes, and any dietary restrictions. It’s so fashionable today to boast of dietary restrictions, you know, whether they exist or not—very chic. A faulty menu would be disastrous. If you got to Town more often, and didn’t send gudgeons to run your errands, you would know that.”
    “Sara, please—”
    “Let’s see . . . I shall need a place to hold my interviews,” she went on, enjoying every moment of his knit brows and black looks. He was the picture of a thunderhead, or a petulant child, or both, chasing a Scotch egg around his plate with a vengeful fork. At one point she was certain it was going to take flight and attack the footman, who was giving it a wide berth attempting to fill his master’s cup. This was so much better than sulking and sobbing. “The morning room, I think,” she said. “Yes, the morning room will do nicely. I shall hold court there after nuncheon whenever the need arises, commencing today. You may alert the servants to expect it.”
    “Have you finished?” he pronounced, meanwhile dismissing the footman, who bowed out gracefully, and fled.
    “Finished? Oh, no, not nearly,” she replied. “You’re really quite fortunate having chosen me, you know, Nicholas. Before my father’s . . . misfortune put him in his grave and me in Fleet Prison, I presided over all of our gatherings—including the hunts. He was a knight, you know. Well, of course you know—
you probably know what he ate for breakfast
—and we entertained quite frequently. So, you see, I’ve a good deal of experience to bring to the position.”
    Nicholas set his fork and serviette down with practiced control, and gripped the edge of the table, like an animal about to spring. For a moment, Sara thought he was going to upend it.
    “Sara, that’s enough!” he seethed. “You make it sound as if you are a mere hireling. You know that isn’t the case.”
    “It is the only ‘case’ that I can live with and endure. . . .
This
, Nicholas,” she said, “is what you want of me, and I willdo it well, but I must be in complete charge of the arrangements.