Free The Maiden's Hand by Susan Wiggs Page A

had touched him. It was like the throb of a heart or a spark rising from a fire. Instantaneous, unmistakable, deeply felt.
    Her face showed only brief recognition; then she blinked and the icy mask fell back in place. He wanted to ask her what was wrong, why she acted so strangely, but not in the present company.
    He straightened, released her hand and turned to greet Wynter. “My lord.” He offered a nonchalant bow. “I see you bring out the best in Mistress Lark.”
    Wynter sent him a conspiratorial wink. “Then I shouldn’t like to see her at her worst, should you? Welcome to my table.” He nodded at Kit to include him.
    “Your father’s table,” Oliver corrected with his most pleasant smile. “Lord Spencer is an admirable man.”
    “Lord Spencer is dying,” Wynter said without concern. “I assume he sent for you in order to cheat me out of my rightful inheritance. I won’t let you. Let’s eat.”
    He planted himself on the canopied chair at the head of the table. Oliver shot a “what an arsehole” look at Kit and held Lark’s chair out for her.
    She stared at him blankly.
    “Do sit down, Mistress Lark,” Oliver murmured.
    A smooth, melodic chuckle flowed from Wynter. “Do forgive our Lark. The social graces seem to be beyond her grasp.”
    She didn’t even flinch. It was as if she were accustomed to his biting comments. She seated herself with the unthinking obedience of a beaten spaniel.
    Oliver sat across from her, and Kit took the seat at the foot of the table. Wishing he could kiss some life back into Lark, Oliver grabbed the pewter wine goblet at his place.
    Lark cleared her throat and clasped her hands in prayer.
    Feeling sheepish, Oliver released the goblet, and when she finished asking the Lord’s grace, he and Kit dutifully replied, “Amen.” Wynter made an elaborate sign of the cross.
    Eager to have done with the tense and silent meal, Oliver was pleased to see a small army of well-trained retainers break into action, flowing in through a small side door from the kitchen. He savored the fresh bread and butter, a salad of greens and nuts, a delicious roasted trout.
    “Thank you, Edgar,” Lark murmured to a boy passing the bread basket.
    “Took me months to get the servants in hand,” Wynter explained, reaching up without looking around, confident that the bread basket would appear. It did. “I suppose dear Lark did her best—didn’t you, Lark?—but of course that couldn’t possibly be good enough. Not for these rough country types.”
    He could not see the blaze of anger that lit the serving boy’s eyes as the lad withdrew. Oliver stifled a laugh. “You just won them over with your charm, my lord.”
    Wynter had a rare gift for focusing his gaze as sharp as a blade. “My lot has not been easy. Spencer disgraced my mother and sent her into exile. Whatever charm I possess, I did not learn at my loving father’s knee.”
    Kit, ever the guardian of right and wrong, lifted his cup and released a huff of breath into it.
    Oliver wished he, too, could remain the skeptic, but he could not. Wynter bore the scars of wounds for which he was not responsible. Just as Oliver hadn’t asked to be bornwith asthma, Wynter hadn’t asked to be born to a woman whose morals were too loose and a man whose morals were too rigid.
    “No one’s lot is easy,” Lark stated. She turned to Oliver. “Except perhaps yours, my lord.”
    “Indeed,” he said wryly, angling his wine cup toward her in a halfhearted salute. He contemplated telling her what it was like to turn blue for want of air but decided it was inappropriate conversation at table.
    The main dish arrived, the platter borne high on the shoulders of two footmen. They planted it with a flourish in the center of the table.
    Wynter closed his eyes and inhaled. “Ah, capon. A favorite of mine.”
    “Lord Oliver,” said Lark, “why don’t you do the honors and serve yourself first?”
    Between his sympathy for the nasty Wynter and his