A Match Made in Bed (Spinster Heiresses #2)(8)

Then again, that Cass had noticed might be a sign she paid more attention to him than he thought?

Perhaps Camberly and the dowager’s plan did have some merit.

The hard-of-hearing Lord Crossley said to the people on either side of him, “What? What are they saying?” No one answered him.

With a last quizzical glance, Miss Holwell turned her attention to her meal.

Lady Melrose spoke up. “I understand you are recently returned from the war in America, Lord Dewsberry. What do you make of all that is going on there?”

“Here now, were you in the military?” Lord Rawlins asked. He had been surreptitiously ogling Cass’s admirable breasts in such a way that Soren had been tempted to thump him on the head.

“I was for a time,” Soren said.

“A time? What does that mean?” Rawlins barked. He motioned for this wineglass to be refilled. The footman also filled Soren’s.

“I sold my commission several years ago.”

“And why?”

“I had other opportunities.”

“What sort of opportunities?”

“I embarked on business,” Soren answered. That statement was met by several blank stares.

“Do you mean trade?” Lady Haddingdon queried. “You sold your commission to work?”

Soren knew their generation would think him odd. His generation would as well, although things were changing. If they knew the complete truth of his life in Canada, they’d be horrified.

He wondered if Cass would be as well. The girl she had been wouldn’t have blinked. But the woman she had become apparently followed the pack.

Or did she? She’d been known for thinking for herself. Now, behind a veneer of bored sophistication, she pretended to be uninterested, but he sensed she listened.

For that reason, he elaborated. “I have investments in Canada. I own a trading post, a store for general supplies, and a tavern. I also started a small shipping company on Lake Huron.”

He was proud of his accomplishments. To his knowledge, he was the first York to make money instead of squandering it. Hence he could set aside his pride to purchase another man’s clothes and not run up more debt. Of course, finding a tailor willing to extend him credit had also been a challenge. Tradesmen were wary of the York name.

“Why would you need to ship things on a lake?” Lady Melrose wondered.

“Lake Huron is larger than the Channel,” Soren explained. He understood how difficult it was for the average Englishman to grasp the vastness of Canada.

“But you are a storekeeper?” Rawlins questioned.

“I HEARD HE IS DONE UP,” Lord Crossley said to Rawlins, indicating with a nod of his head he was speaking of Soren.

“You are speaking too loud,” Lady Melrose chided him.

“WHAT?”

“BE QUIET,” Lady Haddingdon said, a comment that was heard up and down the table. There were twitters here and there. Glances were exchanged.

Soren could have cheerfully wished them all to Hades.

Lady Melrose proved she was indeed attempting to be his angel by saying, “My late husband was good in business. It is one of the things I liked most about him. Tell me, Dewsberry. Are your businesses lucrative?”

“There is the rub. They were starting to do well when I was there to oversee things. Then my father died. I had to return to England and took on a partner.” He kept his story simple. “He is overseeing matters for me; however, with the war . . . well, one never knows.”

“Your man could be robbing you blind,” Rawlins predicted.

“Possibly.” With Soren’s luck of late, he probably was. Or bankrupting the businesses. “I pray not.”

“Did you see any savages?” the blunt Lady Haddingdon demanded. It was a question all Londoners liked to ask and the one Soren detested the most.

“I knew many natives,” he answered. “I find them intelligent people.”

“I hear they run around half naked. Is that true? Are they all naked?”

“No, they wear clothes.”

“Oh,” was her disappointed response. “I’d like to see one. I hear they are frightfully ugly.”

“You ‘hear’ a great deal,” Soren countered. “The truth is, the natives are not ugly. They are a handsome people who have the same concerns and cares as you or I.”

“It sounds as if you admire these Indians?” Rawlins said.

“I do,” Soren answered. “I’ve worked with them for years. They are our closest allies in the war we fight right now and I respect them. No,” he said, correcting himself. He’d attended too many dinner parties where he’d been “polite,” a condition that was starting to annoy him about himself. “I admire them.” If they knew the whole truth, they would be truly shocked.

Even so, that statement killed conversation. Rawlins pulled a face at Lord Crossley, who hadn’t heard a word of what had been said. “What? What? What?” he repeated, albeit more quietly than before.

Lady Melrose shushed him while, beneath the table, Lady Haddingdon placed her hand on Soren’s thigh.

At first, he thought she’d made a mistake. He looked askance at her. She smiled at him with her squinting eyes. He took her hand and moved it back to her lap, warning her with a pat to keep it there. Her response was an unrepentant burp into her napkin and a signal to the footman that she needed more wine.