His brows rose. This was not the Sarah Pleinsworth with whom he was familiar.

“But I don’t like you,” she suddenly blurted.

Ah. There she was. Hugh actually took some comfort in her rudeness. He was feeling unaccountably weary, and he did not have the energy to figure out this deeper, more nuanced Sarah Pleinsworth.

He might not like the overly dramatic young miss who made grand and loud pronouncements, but right then . . . he preferred her.

Chapter Eight

She really could see over the entire room from up here at the head table, Sarah thought. It gave one the opportunity to stare quite shamelessly (as one did at events such as these) at the bride. The happy bride, dressed in pale lavender silk and a radiant smile. One could, perhaps, shoot dagger eyes at that happy bride (with no intention, of course, that the happy bride actually see those dagger eyes). But it was, after all, Honoria’s fault that Sarah was stuck up here, sitting next to Lord Hugh Prentice, who, after apparently having a lovely conversation with her younger sister, had turned unpleasant and surly.

“I do bring out the best in you, don’t I?” Sarah muttered without looking at him.

“Did you say something?” he asked. He didn’t look at her, either.

“No,” she lied.

He shifted in his seat, and Sarah glanced down long enough to realize that he was adjusting the position of his leg. He seemed to be most comfortable with it stretched out before him; she’d noticed that the previous night at supper. But whereas that table had been laden with guests, this one was quite empty save for the two of them, and there was plenty of room to—

“It doesn’t hurt,” he said, not turning even an inch in her direction.

“I beg your pardon?” she said, since she had not been looking at his leg. In fact, after she had noticed that he was holding it quite straight, she had been quite purposefully looking at at least six other things.

“The leg,” Hugh said. “It doesn’t hurt right now.”

“Oh.” It was on the tip of her tongue to retort that she had not inquired about his leg, but even she knew when good manners called for restraint. “The wine, I imagine,” she finally said. He hadn’t had much, but if he said that it helped with the pain, who was she to doubt him?

“It is difficult to bend,” he said. And then he did look at her, full straight and green. “In case you were wondering.”

“Of course not,” she said quickly.

“Liar,” he said softly.

Sarah gasped. Of course she had been lying, but it had been a polite lie. Whereas his calling her out on it had been most assuredly not polite.

“If you want to know about it,” Hugh said, cutting off a small bite of cake with the side of his fork, “just ask.”

“Very well,” Sarah said sharply, “are you missing any great big chunks of flesh?”

He choked on his cake. This gave her great satisfaction.

“Yes,” he said.

“Of what size?”

He looked like he might smile again, which had not been her intention. He glanced down at his leg. “I’d say about two cubic inches.”

She gritted her teeth. What sort of person answered in cubic inches?

“About the size of a very small orange,” he added. Condescendingly. “Or a somewhat massive strawberry.”

“I know what a cubic inch is.”

“Of course you do.”

And the bizarre thing was, he didn’t sound the least bit condescending when he said that.

“Did you injure your knee?” she asked, because drat it all, now she was curious. “Is that why you cannot bend it?”

“I can bend it,” he replied, “just not very well. And no, there was no injury to the knee.”

Sarah waited several seconds, then said, primarily between her teeth, “Why, then, can’t you bend it?”

“The muscle,” he said, letting one of his shoulders rise and fall in a shrug. “I suspect it doesn’t stretch the way it ought, given that it’s missing two cubic inches of, what did you call it?” His voice grew unpleasantly droll. “Ah yes, a chunk of flesh.”

“You told me to ask,” she ground out.

“So I did.”

Sarah felt her mouth tighten. Was he trying to make her feel like a heel? If there were any official society rules for how a gentlewoman was meant to behave with a partially crippled man, they had not been taught to her. She was fairly certain, however, that she was supposed to pretend that she did not notice his infirmity.

Unless he required assistance. In which case she was supposed to notice his limp, because it would be unforgivably insensitive to stand aside and watch him flounder. But either way, she probably wasn’t supposed to ask questions.

Such as why he couldn’t bend his leg.

But still. Wasn’t it his duty as a gentleman not to make her feel awful about it when she flubbed?

Honoria owed her one for this. Honoria probably owed her three.

Three of what, she wasn’t sure, but something large. Something very large.

They sat there for another minute or so, then Hugh said, “I don’t think your sister is coming back with cake.” He motioned very slightly with his head. Frances was waltzing with Daniel. The expression on her face was one of utter delight.

“He has always been her favorite cousin,” Sarah remarked. She still wasn’t really looking at Hugh, but she sort of felt him nod in agreement.

“He has an easy way with people,” Hugh said.

“It is a talent.”

“Indeed.” He took a sip of his wine. “One that you possess as well, I understand.”