After a Fashion (A Class of Their Own #1)(81)
“What has you so upset, then?” Oliver asked.
“We’re going to have to let it be known that our engagement isn’t exactly official and that we’re not truly attached.”
Frowning, Oliver leaned closer to her. “Why in the world would we do something like that? You’re doing marvelously at the moment, well, not standing here in the middle of the room, but I do believe you’ve already charmed the duke, and we haven’t even gotten to the first course yet.”
“Lady Victoria is interested in you. I have to say, given that she’s beautiful, wealthy, and holds a title, that the two of you would make a perfect match. That’ll never happen, though, if she continues believing your interest resides with me.”
“What?”
“Good thing Abigail isn’t close enough to hear your less-than-adequate posing of a question, but since you don’t seem to be comprehending what I’m telling you, I’ll keep this as simple as possible. Lady Victoria is attracted to you, and she also was under the impression you were eligible.” She drew in a breath and quickly released it. “Quite frankly, I wouldn’t be surprised to discover the duke brought his daughter to New York in order for the two of you to form an attachment to each other.”
Oliver, for some annoying reason, laughed. “You’re imagining things. No duke is going to try to wed his daughter to a man who has made his fortune through trade and finance.”
“You’re handsome and wealthy, so of course he’s going to try. Really, Oliver, since you and the duke are considering forming a business alliance, I hardly believe he’s opposed to gentlemen who earn their money through trade.”
“You find me handsome?”
“What are the two of you doing?” Abigail demanded, allowing Harriet the luxury of not answering Oliver’s question. “Archibald and the duke are waiting to take their seats, but they can’t do that until you take yours, Harriet. And I wouldn’t think it necessary for me to point out the obvious, but I don’t believe conversing in the middle of Delmonico’s—and in whispered tones, at that—is exactly what the two of you want to be doing. You’re now the objects of everyone’s speculation because it appears as if the two of you are arguing.”
“But . . . that’s perfect,” Harriet exclaimed, “and will go far in allowing Lady Victoria to realize Oliver and I aren’t in accord.”
“She’s lost her mind,” Oliver said to Abigail as he took a firm grip of Harriet’s arm. Before she knew it, she was sitting at a linen-draped table covered with crystal and gold-gilded china, staring at a menu that seemed to be in French.
She’d never had much exposure to French, and the little exposure she’d had certainly hadn’t prepared her for understanding what appeared to be exotic dishes.
Oliver leaned close to her. “Would you care for me to order for you?”
“Don’t you read French?” Miss Dixon demanded as she leaned over Everett and arched a brow at Harriet.
Harriet arched a brow of her own but was spared responding anything at all when the duke set aside his menu and sighed.
“I have no idea why menus must be written in French. Why, I’ve never taken to that language and am always forced to simply make an uneducated guess, never knowing what dishes are going to show up in front of me.” He looked directly at Harriet and then, to her amazement, he winked.
“Allow me to order for you as well,” Oliver offered, amusement lacing his tone.
“I too have trouble with French,” Lady Victoria proclaimed, batting her lashes again at Oliver, which he didn’t appear to notice as he disappeared behind his menu.
Why wasn’t he noticing?
Lady Victoria was perfect for him, and yet, he was barely paying the woman any mind at all. Even she knew that marrying an aristocrat was extremely sought-after amongst the elite of America and . . .
Four men in black jackets took that moment to appear at the table, reminding Harriet that she was supposed to be engaged in dinner conversation, not lost in confusing thoughts. She almost jumped out of her seat, though, when one of the men snapped an expensive-looking napkin right beside her and then placed it over her lap. She forced aside the instinct to slap the man’s hand away and summoned up a smile. “Thank you,” she said, which earned her a nod from the server and a grin from Oliver, as if he’d been perfectly aware of the fact she’d almost just assaulted a member of the staff.
Wine flowed into the crystal glasses as Oliver began to place their orders, pausing when Miss Dixon cleared her throat. Oliver set his menu aside when Miss Dixon tossed him a charming smile and placed her own order in a somewhat questionable French accent. Everett, Harriet noticed, looked slightly appalled and more than a touch disgruntled.
Hiding a smile behind her wine glass, Harriet took a sip and immediately wished she hadn’t. The wine tasted bitter, and it took everything she had not to spit it out but swallow it instead.
“Do you not care for the wine?” the duke asked. He sat directly across the table from her, with Lady Victoria on one side of him and Abigail on the other.
“It’s . . . ah . . . hmmm,” was all she could manage to get out, her taste buds still reeling from the unpleasantness she’d forced on them.
“I’ve always believed that wine is an acquired taste,” Miss Dixon said, taking up her own wine glass before she sniffed it, smiled, and took a sip. “Delicious.”