“It was, nevertheless, a falsehood by omission, Thorne.” Ravencroft censured him as he descended the stairs, his glare jumping back and forth between the two of them, narrowed with suspicion.
Mena actually retreated down a step, inwardly cringing at his undeniable position on the particular subject of omission.
Brothers, she marveled. Though she supposed she could see the resemblance now that they stood close to one another. As far as she could discern, their height was similar, though Ravencroft was undoubtedly the larger of the two. Like Dorian Blackwell, Liam was swarthy, where Gavin’s hair shone even more lambent than before, now that it wasn’t darkened by sea water.
Something electric crackled in the air between the men, charging it with such masculine tension, she could scarcely breathe.
Blessedly, the half-hour-to-dinner bell reverberated through the waves of aggression rolling off the brothers, and Mena blessed the chef and his compulsive timeliness.
Perceptibly pulling an air of geniality about him like a cloak, Lord Thorne turned once again to Mena. “Will I be seeing ye at dinner, English?”
“I—I suppose,” Mena answered, glancing uncertainly to her employer.
“In my house, you will address her as Miss Lockhart, as is appropriate,” the marquess ordered. “And I never invite ye to dinner.”
“And yet I always stay to dine.” Gavin flashed his brother another of his roguish smiles. “Come now, Liam, ye wouldna deprive my niece and nephew of my charming company, would ye? Now if ye’ll excuse me, I’m going to see what culinary delights that French genius of yers has in store for me tonight.” Turning on his heel, he jogged down the stairs, and strode in the direction of the kitchens. Not a retreat, per se, but a strategic withdrawal, in Mena’s opinion.
Judging by the wrath glittering in Ravencroft’s obsidian eyes, she applauded Lord Thorne’s decision.
Knuckles white on the banister and a vein pulsing above his flexed jaw, the marquess captured her attention with his furious glare. He said nothing, but scrutinized her features as if searching for the answer to a question he dare not ask.
Mena watched in fascination as a narrow spectrum of emotion played across his savage expression. Irritation, suspicion, fury, and … bleak misery?
The last one caused her no small amount of confusion and distress.
“My laird, I—”
“Doona I pay ye to spend yer days with my children, Miss Lockhart?” The insinuation that she shirked her duties stung.
Dumbfounded, she could do little but nod.
“Well, then,” he clipped, and dismissed her by descending the rest of the stairs two at a time, as though one didn’t pose enough of a challenge for his long stride.
Mena couldn’t bring herself to move until she started at the slam of a door.
* * *
For the first time in as long as she could remember, Mena couldn’t bring herself to eat. Stomach churning with nerves, she kept glancing toward the obsequious Earl of Thorne who insisted on saying something flirtatious every couple of minutes. Then she’d peek at the ominously silent marquess, whose glare gathered more dark fire with every refill of his whisky glass.
The aroma of parsnip and leek soup with white fish in a cream sauce tempted her appetite, but Mena could hardly look at it without feeling ill. Not only was she nervous about this strange dynamic between her and the two Mackenzie brothers, but Andrew was perched on her right squirming with apprehension about whether Lord Thorne would bring up the puppy.
Everyone, it seemed, was wound tight as a bowstring. The sound of the rain lashing against the windows and the clink of fine silver were the only sounds that permeated the uneasy silence that settled around the room like a thick blanket.
Only Rhianna ate with vigor, oblivious to the tension around her as she sat across from Russell, who watched everyone very carefully, obviously trying to ascertain just what he was missing.
“Uncle Gavin,” Rhianna asked once her initial hunger had been sated and she slowed to allow conversation. “Did ye meet any refined, available ladies whilst in London?”
The earl smiled indulgently at his niece. “None I’d consider making a countess.” He wiped at his mouth with a napkin and revealed an impish smile that intensified the sparkle in his eye. “And none so refined as your Miss Lockhart, here.”
“Miss Lockhart is most sophisticated,” Rhianna readily agreed. “She’s the first governess who ever made Andrew read.” She elbowed her brother sharply.
“She’s not making me read, Rhianna,” Andrew argued, though he looked up at Mena with heart-melting admiration. “She just made me want to. We have an agreement.”
“A distinguished governess, to be sure,” Lord Thorne murmured. “Though she wasna so refined the first time I met her.”
“You didna mention meeting Uncle Gavin before,” Rhianna exclaimed, unaware of the supreme interest the conversation had garnered from all other occupants of the table. “When were ye two introduced?”
Had Mena been eating, she would have choked. She implored the unrepentant earl with her eyes, not even daring to glance toward the head of the table.
Her discomfiture only seemed to encourage the scoundrel. “I happened upon the lass exploring the Kinross Cove. She swam halfway out to sea like she’d done it a million times before, her skirts hiked to her knees, to save yer wee—”
“I didn’t mention it because I didn’t know he was your uncle at the time, and I thought it of little consequence.” Mena interrupted what might have been a reveal about the puppy. This was what came of deceit. A stomach full of guilt and a heart full of lead. She never should have allowed herself to be talked into it. If she could survive tonight, it would all be over in the morning.