When Sabrina arrived in the dining room that evening, her husband was already there, standing in profile at the head of the twenty-foot table. The candlelight seemed to make his bright-white collar glisten against the stark black of his coat. A single emerald stick pin was the only color in his attire, sparkling amidst the snow of his cravat. She was a bit disappointed that his neck wasn’t exposed as it had been that morning after Grayson had scratched him. Apparently, she rather enjoyed ogling his bare flesh.
He pivoted as she walked into the room, his gaze sweeping over her in a hooded fashion. She couldn’t read anything about his reaction. Or if he even had one.
The head of the table was set as was the seat to his right. Sabrina moved to the chair and he, not a footman, held it for her.
“Thank you,” she murmured. “Your chin looks to be improved.” Though there was an inch-long, thin, red stripe.
“It is no longer bleeding, at least. I am not usually this prone to injury.” He was of course referring to the cut to his hand on the night she’d arrived. Was that humor in his voice? She thought so. Perhaps they had turned a corner onto a new path earlier. Who knew a mischievous cat could do what they could not?
As she sat, his hand fleetingly grazed her shoulder. Though the contact was brief and slight, she felt it in the pit of her belly, where a mass of flittering butterflies tickled her in anticipation of the following evening. When she would be his tutor, of all things. The thought of it still sent her into a near panic, and she had to suppress the urge to let out a nervous laugh.
After Aldington was seated, the footman poured claret and the first course, white soup, was immediately placed before them, sending a pleasing aroma of veal and almond into the air.
Sabrina picked up her spoon amidst a tumult of anxiety. She needed to tell him about her invitation to the Phoenix Club. Instead, she said something completely inane. “I have missed Cook’s white soup.”
“She does make my favorite version,” he said before sampling from his bowl.
They ate in silence for a few moments—well, outward silence. There was a cacophony in Sabrina’s head as she contemplated how to tell him about the invitation, recalled everything she’d discussed with Evie that afternoon, and anticipated what was to come tomorrow evening.
She cast a glance in his direction, noting the sharp angle of his cheekbone and the lush sweep of his eyelashes. How had she never noticed how long they were?
Setting down her spoon, she sipped the claret, which reminded her of summer berries. Again, she stalled. “This is delicious. I don’t drink wine very often at Hampton Lodge. I never know what to ask for. Perhaps you could provide me with some direction.”
His brow pleated. “Dagnall should be able to help you with that.”
Dagnall was the butler at Hampton Lodge. She preferred to have her husband’s assistance. “I was rather hoping you could share your opinions,” she said serenely before taking up her spoon and finishing her soup.
“I’ll ask Haddock to put together a selection of wine for us to taste. You should form your own opinions instead of relying on mine.”
“I’d like to hear yours all the same. Tasting them together sounds delightful.” Something else to look forward to. The butterflies in Sabrina’s belly rose to her chest.
A footman removed their dishes, and another replaced them with the next course, sole and green beans. Sabrina gathered her knife and fork. Now. Mention the invitation now.
The butterflies grew darker and moved more quickly, with a sickening effect. She forced a smile. “How was your racing club meeting?”
She was such a coward. And why? Telling him this was nothing compared to asking him if he preferred to sleep with men. He was also not her parents who typically found a way to make anything Sabrina found good into something bad. Aldington wouldn’t do that. He hadn’t ever.
“Quite the usual. We won’t begin the actual racing season until the end of the month, but we do like to plan our excursions. Our season always begins with the jaunt to the Pickled Goose.”
Sabrina recalled that was a tavern in Richmond. “Are wives ever allowed as guests?”
His fork, with a green bean speared upon it, was halfway to his mouth when his arm arrested. “We’ve never discussed it. Likely because half our members are unwed.” As if that explained why it hadn’t come up.
“I should be intrigued to join you some time, if it were allowed.” Sabrina set her utensils down. She couldn’t—shouldn’t—avoid the subject any longer. She’d made it into something far bigger than it was. “Earlier today, I received an invitation to join the Phoenix Club.”
He set his knife and fork down and reached for his wineglass. “I see.” The words were flat, his gaze fixed on his wine before he took a long drink. “And do you plan to accept it?”
“I do. In fact, I’m going to attend the assembly on Friday with Mrs. Renshaw.” She clasped her hands in her lap, wringing them as her insides cartwheeled with unease. “Are you angry?”
“Why should I be?” His entire demeanor had cooled. They’d been sharing a pleasant meal until now. “I am surprised.”
“Because you haven’t received an invitation?”
Now he looked surprised—and slightly irritated. “You know that?”
“I, er, assumed,” she lied, not wanting him to know she’d discussed his membership, or lack thereof, with Evie. “But maybe you did receive one and declined. That wouldn’t surprise me, since you seem to disdain the club.”
“I haven’t ever been invited, nor do I expect to be. How…nice for you to be a member.” He’d held onto his wineglass throughout this conversation and now finished the contents.
“I would prefer that you were a member too. Perhaps Lucien could see that you are invited.”
“No.” The clipped response landed hard, like a stone. “It’s his club. He would have invited me by now if he wanted to.” He set his empty glass down, and the footman moved to refill it.
Plucking up his utensils, he pushed his food around his plate. She could see he wasn’t eating and hated that she’d caused him distress.
“How was your meeting with the duke?” she asked softly. As much as she wanted to know how it had gone, she was more concerned with filling the uncomfortable air.
Aldington’s lip curled slightly, and she instantly thought the interview had gone poorly. “He is considering our request for you to replace Aunt Christina as Cassandra’s sponsor.”
Our request. Sabrina liked the sound of that, even if she didn’t feel like they were an “our” or an “us.” “That’s better than an outright refusal.”
“To be honest, denial was his initial response, but I told him that you were up to the challenge and would do a much better job than Aunt Christina.”
Sabrina lifted her gaze to his, glad for his advocacy, though an old feeling of dread wriggled between her ribs. “I am up to the challenge.”
Aldington instructed the footmen to leave them alone. The dismissal surprised Sabrina. He’d never done anything like that. When they were gone, he continued, “The person I saw last night at the rout and somewhat again earlier today—charming, outgoing, flirtatious even. Is that really who you are?”