“Knowing of your penchant for trouble, Miss Bowman, I have concluded that it is safer to keep you in my sight, and within arm’s reach if possible.”

His statement was delivered with matter-of-fact lightness. One would have to search very hard to find any innuendo in his tone. And yet Lillian felt a strange liquid ripple inside, sensation passing from one nerve to another like a flow of warm honey.

Lifting a glass of iced champagne to her lips, Lillian glanced around the dining hall. Daisy had been seated near the end of the table, talking animatedly and nearly knocking over a wine goblet as she gestured to emphasize her words. Annabelle was at the next table, seeming oblivious to the multitude of admiring masculine stares fastened on her. The men on either side of her were positively beaming at their good fortune at being seated next to such a ravishing companion, while Simon Hunt, located a few places away, regarded them with the baleful gaze of a very territorial male.

Evie, her aunt Florence, and Lillian’s parents were included with the guests at the farthest table. As usual, Evie was saying very little to the men beside her, tongue-tied and nervous as she stared down at her plate. Poor Evie, Lillian thought sympathetically. We’ll have to do something about your blasted shyness.

Reflecting on the subject of her unmarried brothers, Lillian wondered if there was any possibility of matching one of them with Evie. Perhaps she could find a way to induce one of them to come to England for a visit. God knew that any of them would be a better husband for Evie than her cousin Eustace. There was her oldest brother, Raphael, and the twins, Ransom and Rhys. A more robust group of young males could not be found. On the other hand, it seemed likely that any of the Bowman brothers would terrify Evie. They were good-natured men, but not what anyone would call refined. Or even civilized.

Her attention was diverted by the long line of footmen bringing in the first course; a parade of tureens filled with turtle soup, and silver platters bearing turbot dressed in lobster sauce, crawfish pudding, and herbed trout with stewed lettuce. It was the first of at least eight courses, which would be followed by several removes of dessert. Facing the prospect of yet another lengthy dinner, Lillian repressed a sigh and looked up to find West-cliff’s subtly searching gaze on her. He said nothing, however, and Lillian found herself breaking the silence.

“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.