It Happened One Autumn (Wallflowers #2)(43)

“Your hunter Brutus seems a very fine horse, my lord. I noticed that you used no whip or spurs with him.”

The conversation around them faded, and Lillian wondered if she had made yet another faux pas. Perhaps an unmarried girl wasn’t supposed to speak until someone addressed her directly. However, Westcliff answered readily. “I rarely use a whip or spurs with any of my stock, Miss Bowman. Usually I am able to obtain the results I want without them.”

Lillian thought wryly that like everyone and everything else on the estate, the bay probably hadn’t a thought of disobeying his master. “He seems to have a steadier temperament than the usual thoroughbred,” she said.

Westcliff leaned back in his chair as a footman served a portion of trout onto his plate. The flickering light played over the close-trimmed layers of his black hair…Lillian couldn’t help but remember the feel of the heavy locks beneath her fingers.

“Brutus is a crossbred, actually. A mixture of thoroughbred and Irish draft.”

“Really?” Lillian made no effort to conceal her surprise. “I would have thought you would ride only horses with pure pedigrees.”

“Many prefer purebreds,” the earl admitted. “But a hunter needs strong jumping ability, and the power to change direction easily. A crossbred like Brutus has all the speed and style of a thoroughbred, combined with the athletic prowess of an Irish draft.”

The others at the table listened attentively. As Westcliff finished, a gentleman added jovially, “Superb animal, Brutus. Descendant of Eclipse, isn’t he? One can always see the influence of the Darley Arabian…”

“It’s very open-minded of you to ride a crossbred,” Lillian murmured.

Westcliff smiled slightly. “I can be open-minded, on occasion.”

“So I’ve heard…but I’ve never seen evidence of it until now.”

Again, conversation stopped as the guests heard Lillian’s provoking comments. Instead of becoming annoyed, Westcliff stared at her with unconcealed interest. Whether the interest was that of a man who found her attractive, or one who merely considered her an oddity of nature was difficult to determine. But it was interest.

“I’ve always tried to approach things in a logical manner,” he said. “Which leads to the occasional break with tradition.”

Lillian gave him a mocking grin. “You don’t always find traditional ideas to be logical?”

Westcliff shook his head slightly, the gleam in his eyes growing brighter as he drank from a wineglass and watched her over the light-tricked crystal rim.

Another gentleman made some joking remark about curing Westcliff of his liberal views while the next course was brought out. The succession of curious bulky objects on silver platters was greeted with much fanfare and pleasure. There were four of them per table, twelve in all, set at measured intervals on small folding side tables, where under-butlers and head footmen proceeded to carve the offerings. The scent of spiced beef filled the air, while guests viewed the contents of the platters with murmurs of anticipation. Twisting a little in her seat, Lillian glanced at the platter nearest her, which was poised on a side table. She nearly recoiled in horror as she found herself looking into the charred features of an unrecognizable beast, with steam rising from its freshly baked skull.

Jerking in surprise, she heard the resultant clatter of silverware. A footman addressed her clumsiness immediately, laying out clean forks and spoons, and bending to retrieve the fallen utensils.

“Wh-what is that?” Lillian asked of no one in particular, unable to tear her gaze from the revolting sight.

“A calf’s head,” one of the ladies replied in a tone laden with condescending amusement, as if this was yet one more example of American backwardness. “A superior English delicacy. Don’t say that you’ve never tried it?”

Struggling to make her face expressionless, Lillian shook her head wordlessly. She flinched as the footman pried open the calf’s smoking jaws and sliced out the tongue.

“Some claim the tongue is the most delicious part,” the lady continued, “while others swear that the brains are by far the most delectable. I will say, however, that without a doubt the eyes are the most exquisite tidbits.”

Lillian’s own eyes closed sickly at this revelation. She felt the rising sting of bile in her throat. She had never been an enthusiast for English cuisine, but as objectionable as she had found some dishes in the past, nothing had ever prepared her for the repulsive sight of the calf’s head. Slitting her eyes open, she glanced around the room. It seemed that everywhere, calves’ heads were being carved, opened and sliced. Brains were spooned out onto plates, throat sweetbreads were cut into thin slices…

She was going to be ill.

Feeling the blood drain from her face, Lillian looked toward the end of the table, where Daisy dubiously watched a few morsels being ceremoniously deposited on her plate. Slowly Lillian raised a corner of her napkin to her mouth. No. She couldn’t let herself be ill. But the rich, oily smell of calf’s head floated all around her, and as she heard the industrious clink of knives and forks being employed, and the appreciative murmuring of the diners, the sickness rose in choking waves. A small plate was settled in front of her, containing a few slices of…something …and a gelatinous eyeball with a conical base rolled lazily toward the rim.

“Sweet Jesus,” Lillian whispered, sweat breaking out on her forehead.