and stomping about, followed by a slammed door or two and the sound of Argus’s hoofbeats tearing off at a gallop.”
“They told you this?”
“With great relish. You had best eat your soup, Mr. Grey. I do not intend to consume mine.”
“Whyever not?” Ethan picked up his spoon, manners be damned.
“It has onions in it. They do not agree with me.”
“And you are probably not partial to mutton sandwiches, either,” Ethan remarked. He hadn’t noticed the onions in the soup until she’d pointed it out. He liked onions in his soup, and if he were to eat mutton sandwiches, he’d probably like onions on them too.
“Nobody from the North is partial to mutton. But by all means, enjoy yourself.”
Ethan put his spoon down, certain she was teasing—rudely, of course—but unable to detect a hint of it in her expression.
“It’s gotten a bit too cool,” he decided. “Shall we see what else the kitchen has prepared?”
Miss Portman’s brows flew up. “Who sets the menus?”
“Haven’t the foggiest.” Ethan lifted the lid of a warming dish and found a tidy little quarter of a ham, with potatoes arranged around it. “The food shows up when I’m hungry, and the dishes disappear when I’m done. Ham, Miss Portman?”
“Please.” She watched as he sliced her a generous portion, chasing little boys being a tiring proposition. “A bit less, if you please?”
“Less?” He cut off a corner of her intended portion.
“Even less. About half that, in fact.”
He complied without comment and deftly moved it to her plate. “Potatoes?”
“One,” she instructed, so he chose the largest one.
“Well, then.” Ethan served himself portions that made his guest quite frankly goggle, a lapse in her manners he noted and politely ignored.
“Let’s see what else awaits us.” He uncovered a plate of roast beef. Another platter held a small roasting hen complete with bread stuffing, a basket of bread, and a tureen of dumplings swimming in more gravy.
“This will do for me,” Miss Portman said, putting a bite of ham into her mouth.
“You’re not having anything else? Nothing?” He had the oddest sense she wasn’t being rude.
“This will do.” She took a sip of her wine, grimaced, then set the glass down.
“Suit yourself.” Ethan proceeded to put decent helpings of food on his plate, then to make his portions disappear with a kind of relentless dispatch that did not allow for conversation. And even as he demolished his dinner, he did so wondering how he would endure meals with Miss Portman for the next six months. When his plate was nearly clean, he looked up to find his guest regarding him curiously.
“Is this the kind of fare your sons consume?”
“I suppose.” He sat back but did not put his utensils down. “Why?”
“Don’t you see something missing from your table, Mr. Grey?”
“Dessert. Fear not, it will be here, as I do enjoy the occasional sweet.”
“Not dessert,” she replied, her tone annoyingly patient. “Something more conducive to the good health of a growing child.”
“I’m not serving ale at my table, Miss Portman. We have it in the kitchen, and I’ll occasionally have a pint, but it hardly adds to a genteel supper.”
She eyed her wineglass balefully and forged ahead.
“Vegetables, Mr. Grey,” she said on a long-suffering sigh. “You have no summer vegetables. You have nothing from the abundance of the good earth but potatoes. I know this will strike you as a radical notion, but children need vegetables, even if they should forgo the spicier preparations.”
Ethan glanced around the table, nonplussed. At Belle Maison, there had been vegetables at every meal save breakfast. It was high summer, for pity’s sake, when the garden was at its best.
He put his utensils down. “I am willing to concede the wisdom of your point. Henceforth, you will meet with Cook and approve the menus. I will have my desserts, though, Miss Portman. It’s little enough to ask in life at the end of a man’s busy day.”
“Fear not,” she quoted him. “I will agree with you—mark the moment—a little something sweet at the end of the day is a deserved reward.”
Unbidden, the question of what Alice Portman might consider a treat at the end of her day popped into Ethan’s mind. A fairy tale read to a rapt juvenile audience, or did she harbor girlish fancies to go along with her tidy bun and studious spectacles?
He took a fortifying sip of his wine and offered her a salute with his glass.
“A moment of accord,” he noted gravely. “How unusual.”
“I won’t make a habit of it. The books in your schoolroom being a case in point.”
“Oh?” Ethan resumed the demolition of his dinner.
“They are boring, for one thing,” she said, sitting back and watching him eat. “And they are far too advanced, for another, and lack anything like the breadth of subject matter little boys require.”
“You were a little boy once, perhaps, that you are expert on the matter?”
She leveled a reproving look at him, which he noted between bites of potato.
“There is more to a boy’s education than drilling into him the dates of ancient battles, Mr. Grey. More to history than the Greeks, the Romans, and the British. More to languages than five declensions and four classes of verbs.”
“You know Latin?” She was an intelligent woman—and he did not mean that insultingly, to his surprise—but Latin?
“Latin and Greek. Once you get the knack of the structure of the one, the other isn’t so difficult to grasp.”
“Good heavens.” Ethan set his utensils down again. “What else has been stuffed between those ears of yours?”
“Astronomy is among my favorites,” she confessed, casting a bashful glance at Ethan’s half-eaten potato. “Mathematics, of course, including geometry and trigonometry, though only the rudiments of calculus. History, though I fear European history defines the limits of my command of the subject at this point. I am competent in French, but my command of modern languages is lacking. I read voraciously when I’ve the time.”
“And what of needlepoint?” Ethan pressed, knowing he should have made these inquiries several days ago. “Tatting lace? Watercolors? A little piano or voice?”
She waved a dismissive hand. “I can mend what needs mending, and I’m a passable accompanist, but it hardly signifies.”
“And why should the refinements of a lady hardly signify?” This bluestocking quality made perfect sense, given what he knew of the woman, but it impressed him as well. He liked a woman who didn’t attempt to trade solely on her face and figure.
“They are not useful, Mr. Grey. The world does not need lace from me, though lace is charming. The world does not need a note-perfect rendition of the simpler Haydn sonatas at my hands, though music is a gift from God. The world does not need another vague rendition of some fruit and a towel, could I manage it, though painting is another gift from God.”
“What does the world need?” He genuinely wanted to know.
“From me,” she said, studying her plate this time, “it needs education. Were I proficient in those ladylike pursuits, I’d be a finishing governess. That is not my gift. I am far more interested in cultivating the minds of my charges than I am in assisting some schoolgirl in her quest to snatch up a spotty young swain of a few weeks’ acquaintance.”
Ethan propped his chin on his hand and surveyed her. “You are an anarchist, Miss Portman. And here I’ve placed the care of my sons in your rabble-rousing hands.”
Her blush was all the more enchanting for being unexpected.
“You are teasing. Do you have all those books in your library for show, then, Mr. Grey? I hadn’t taken you for a man driven by appearances.”
“I’m not. I love to read.” This was not a matter of pride; it was a simple truth. “One can’t be managing
