Mr. Dorning’s comment—about his hearty appetites—might have been another attempt at naughty innuendo, but Jeanette sensed he was simply being honest.
“I am famished,” she said as Mr. Dorning took the place at her elbow. “I had not considered that knife throwing is a particularly athletic activity.”
“You didn’t think it would be so enjoyable, did you?” He poured them both a glass of claret. “You can be honest with me, my lady. Your secrets are safe here.”
Jeanette had bet her reputation on that assumption. “Knives are serious business,” she replied, “and no, I did not think I would enjoy my lesson half so much as I did.”
He touched his glass to hers. “To enjoyable lessons. Shall we start with the soup?”
As her host prattled on about temperamental kitchen personalities and the upset caused when the sovereign spent an evening at the Coventry’s tables, Jeanette reflected that she had indeed enjoyed her lesson. She had enjoyed Sycamore Dorning’s instruction, even as she’d been puzzled by his combination of jocular arrogance and sexual indifference.
She thought of her last three throws, an equilateral triangle of success, and of how much that pleased her. To her consternation, she was even more pleased to have spent nearly two hours in the company of a handsome, half-clad man and felt no threat or impropriety from him. She had no use for men, generally, and particularly not for the half-clad, handsome variety.
That Sycamore Dorning could be a perfect gentleman when naked from the waist up and alone with a lady was a pleasant surprise, and one which, oddly, made Jeanette curious about their next encounter. Mildly curious, but curious nonetheless.
Dinner with Lady Tavistock did not go as planned.
Sycamore had intended to continue drawing upon previously untapped stores of acting talent to lull her ladyship into viewing him as a charming raconteur, gracious host, and an all-around harmless—albeit handsome—fellow.
He was not particularly handsome. His eyes were an off color, shading lavender rather than Nordic blue or dark and dreamy. His hair was merely brown and prone to wave rather than fashionably curl. Whereas the older Dornings, including Jacaranda, made height look majestic, Sycamore felt gangly. After years of longing for his siblings’ stature, he still occasionally forgot to duck when wearing a top hat that brushed the lintel of a doorway.
He had inherited Grandpapa’s stately nose and Grandmama’s imposing eyebrows, meaning his features were less than refined.
But the Coventry had taught Sycamore many lessons, the first being that handsome was more a matter of presentation than looks. He was scrupulous about his toilette, he observed the courtesies, he paid his tithes to Bond Street, and he carried himself as if he should turn heads.
And thus heads turned.
Lady Tavistock had learned the feminine version of the same lesson, apparently, for she ate with exquisite manners, consumed only half a glass of wine with each course, and generally exuded the air of a proper widow.
How Sycamore hoped that was at least partly presentation rather than substance.
Somewhere between the soup and the roast, Sycamore forgot to be charming and instead turned up contemplative. How this had happened, he did not know, but he suspected his guest was to blame. She had a habit of putting a question to him, then regarding him gravely, as if she would be disappointed in him for replying with a superficial witticism.
“I disliked university,” Sycamore said after she asked how he’d come into managing the club. “I had no meaningful role at Dorning Hall, and thus I was at loose ends.”
She dabbed butter on a slice of bread. “You did not take to the curriculum of wine, women, and song?”
“One need not go to university to enjoy those subjects, but because my family is titled, that seemed to be all that was expected of me. That and wagering, cards, and whining about allowances that never stretched far enough. I suspect the true purpose of university is to establish places where young men can act like jackasses without embarrassing their families.”
The marchioness tore off a bite of bread and considered it. “Why do young ladies have no such freedom? We are watched over and guided from infancy right up until we speak our wedding vows, and then a husband decides exactly how foolish we are permitted to be.”
Interesting question. “Because when a young man makes an ass of himself, the worst that can happen is that the world is short one foolish young man. Tragic, but the consequences land mostly on the person being reckless. If a young lady is foolish, babies can result, and the ruin spreads to her family and offspring.”
Lady Tavistock put down her bread. “Why do you assume that a young lady’s version of foolishness must include partaking of what young men—and old men, too, for that matter—are ever so eager to impose on her? Why can’t she ride astride in a moonlit steeplechase? Make wagers involving hot air balloons and the coast of Normandy? Why can’t she stay up late with her friends, drinking and singing lewd songs? Why must everything a lady does be fashioned to ensure some man gets a piece of her joy?”
This diatribe raised all sorts of possibilities, regarding the lady and the men who’d stolen pieces of her joy. Rather than speculate, Sycamore focused on her questions, because she deserved his answers.
“My sense of why I, and most of my associates at university, were reckless is because we sought to test ourselves against the greatest possible risk, while pretending our courage made the undertaking a mere lark. The drunken steeplechases, the abuse of spirits, the ridiculous wagers are all tests of courage.” As had been, come to think of it, the duels and brawls.
“Bravado,” her ladyship retorted. “Courage displayed for effect, not courage in its truest, quiet form.”
“A boy’s courage,” Sycamore said. “Courage that needs the reinforcement of admiration, perhaps.”
Lady Tavistock glowered at her wineglass. “To show the
