Miss Sharpe’s smile changed into a puzzled frown. “I am sorry. Entomologist?”
“A relatively new term for my branch of study.” He took a turn glancing about, to be certain no one else listened. “Some call it insectology. I am a naturalist who studies insects.” The young ladies of his acquaintance did not consider the mention of insects appropriate dinner table conversation.
“Oh.” Apparently, given the way Miss Sharpe’s blue eyes brightened, she was not like most people in that regard. “That was what you were doing. This whole afternoon, I thought you were in the gardens inspecting the flowers. Then I thought your enthusiasm over the butterfly was something of a hobby.”
He injected his words with some humor rather than take offense. “I suppose some would call it that.”
Most of his acquaintances in the world of science termed his interest in bugs a hobby. Some added the adjective disgusting to qualify their opinion on the fact. Except for his father, whose studies centered on birds. Ornithology commanded a great deal more respect than the newly renamed study of insects. But Rupert’s father had always encouraged him to follow his passion.
“I have so many questions.” Miss Sharpe’s voice raised just slightly, to a normal conversation level. “Are you a member of the Linnean Society? I have a cousin who dabbles in botany. He subscribes to their journal, and I have read some of the articles. I confess to finding the most interest in things which pertained to flowers.” Ah, there was that spark in her eyes.
Rupert sat back a little in his chair. “You? A lady, reading scientific journals?”
The spark fizzled and turned dark and smoky instead. “Yes, as fantastic as it might seem, I—a woman—have a curiosity about the natural world.” She turned to give more attention to her plate, angling herself in such a way as to avoid looking at him.
Her tone held enough of a chill in it to make him shiver. Apparently, he was the one now in danger of giving offense. “Miss Sharpe. I meant—”
“Pardon me, Mr. Gardiner.” The baroness to his right, Lady Alterby, attempted to gain his attention.
Rupert wanted to sink into his chair. First he insulted an intelligent woman, now he had been brought to realize he had neglected his other dinner companion. He fixed a smile in place and turned to speak to the elderly woman. “Yes, my lady?”
“I have just learned that your uncle is a solicitor in Peterborough. I have a nephew there. Perhaps they are acquainted. But I had thought to ask you if you have been there of late. I have not gone in years...” Lady Alterby kept speaking, her cadence more like the drone of a common housefly than the spritely way Miss Sharpe had conversed with him.
Though he attempted to enter an actual conversation with Lady Alterby, it became apparent that she had more of a desire to reminisce about her time in Peterborough than exchange thoughts or opinions on any subject.
Finally, she turned to the dinner guest at her other side, the vicar, and nettled him about where he had taken orders.
Rupert took the reprieve gratefully. “Miss Sharpe? Would you like some of the”—he peered at the platter in confusion a moment—“braised carrots and rabbit?”
She had remained quiet since their exchange, no one else engaging her. But she nodded tightly in response to his question.
Rupert did his duty, serving her from the new platter a footman placed upon the table, but she seemed as inclined to push that portion of the meal as she had the last.
“Miss Sharpe?”
“Yes, Mr. Gardiner?” She did not turn to look at him. The lavender gown she wore made her appear quite pale. Or perhaps his company displeased her.
“Are you unwell?” he asked, lowering his voice and leaning closer to her.
He did not miss the way her hand tightened around her fork the instant before she looked at him. “I am perfectly well. Thank you.”
Rupert stumbled over his thoughts. “I am sorry. I only thought—since you are not eating—” He cut himself off and took a drink to stave off any more of his own foolishness.
She sent him a perplexed glance, stabbed at a slice of purple potato, and put the whole thing in her mouth at once. Then she raised her eyebrows, daring him to make another comment. Instead he laughed, but as he was still sipping at his drink, he gulped the wine, so it went entirely the wrong direction down his throat.
Rupert choked, put a napkin over his mouth and coughed, but a burning sensation remained. His eyes started to water, and everyone at the table fell silent.
Someone pressed a cup into his hand, and he drank, but that proved a mistake, too.
When he finally had control of his lungs and throat, eyes streaming, he looked up. Everyone stared at him. Except for Miss Sharpe, who had somehow managed to shrink despite sitting with proper posture.
With heat running up the back of his neck and into his ears, he placed a hand over his heart and gave the semblance of a bow from his seat. “I beg your pardon, Your Graces. Do forgive me.”
“Are you quite all right, Gardiner?” the duke asked from his end of the table.
“Yes, Your Grace.” Rupert stood and bowed properly. “Merely a difficult swallow, sir.” His humiliation mounted.
“Very well. Do eat more carefully, sir.” The duke’s light tone gave others the leave to laugh and go back to their conversations.
Rupert lowered himself back into his chair, took one small sip of his wine, then turned his full attention to the woman on his left. “Miss Sharpe.”
She was attempting to pretend there was a wall between them, given her refusal to look at him. Had his accident somehow embarrassed her?
He leaned closer to her and lowered his voice. “Miss Sharpe?”
She hesitantly turned to him, then whispered, “I am sorry I made you cough.”
Rupert’s heart softened further toward her. “I owe you an apology, too. I did not mean to give you insult before. About the scientific journal.”
Those blue eyes were wide and apologetic behind her spectacles. “You did not? I mean—of course not.” She dropped her gaze to her lap where he saw she twisted a ring around her thumb. “It must surprise you, though. My cousin always thought it odd for a woman to show interest—”
“For anyone, Miss Sharpe.” He forced a smile. He had already humiliated himself that evening. Making a clear, thorough apology would not hurt his pride. “I can count on one hand the number of acquaintances I have, outside of the naturalists I’ve befriended, who have even looked at a journal published by the Linnean or the Royal Society. It is unique, no matter your sex.”
The color reappeared in her cheeks. “I see.” She opened her mouth, ready to say more, but the baroness called for Rupert’s attention again. He spared Miss Sharpe an apologetic smile, then gave his other dinner companion the courtesy of listening to what she had to say.
Rupert’s coughing fit had drawn too much attention for anyone to ignore him from that point forward. Regrettably, he could not turn again for a private word with the pretty governess. Miss Sharpe kept her head down and her concentration on her plate until dinner ended, when she slipped away at the same moment the servants cleared the last dish.
Disappointment settled upon Rupert’s shoulders, heavy enough to keep him from enjoying the rest of the evening. He had wanted to find out why the governess’s eyes lit up at the mention of scientific journals. He wanted to know what she thought of the flowers present in the duke’s gardens.