This was new. There was never any formal dinner. She and Miss Pelham took their meals in the kitchen with Duncan, or so he assumed. Ransom never joined them.
“We finished the dining room yesterday. Duncan, Miss Pelham, and I. So we decided to take a holiday from dusting and celebrate with a formal dinner tonight.” She rose from her chair. “Miss Pelham has been working on the menu all day.”
He scratched the thick growth of whiskers on his chin. “No one mentioned it.”
“I . . .” Her voice softened to that soothing, wild-honey tone. “Oh, I’m sorry. I should have thought to tell you. Are your feelings hurt?”
“What?” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Don’t be absurd. My feelings—not that I’m admitting to possessing any, mind you—are not hurt.”
“We didn’t mean for you to feel left out. You’re welcome to join us, of course. It’s just . . . you never do. You never take dinner with us at all.”
It was late in the day, and his vision had faded. She was just a roving patch of darker gray in a sea of light gray mist. He couldn’t tell whether her invitation was sincere or pitying.
But then, it didn’t matter. She was right; he never dined with their group. For good reason.
He rose to his feet. “Goodnight, I do appreciate your generous invitation to attend this dinner that my money paid for, in my own home, but—”
“Oh, please do come.”
The words rushed from her, impulsive—but they were no more reckless than her concurrent gesture.
She took his hand.
She took his hand in hers and squeezed it. Sweetly. As if he were a reluctant child who needed a bit of compassion and encouragement.
At least, that’s what he assumed those gestures felt like. His own childhood had been utterly devoid of compassion or encouragement.
“I’d be very glad if you joined us for dinner, Ransom. If only because it means one person at the table who couldn’t care less about the true identity of the Shadow Knight.”
He frowned. “What’s a Shadow Knight?”
“Exactly.” She squeezed his hand again. “That’s the best thing anyone’s said to me in ages. Do come to dinner and be your ill-tempered, unromantic self. Please.”
“I told the duke about our dinner this evening.” Izzy sucked in her breath as Miss Pelham gave her corset laces a firm tug. “I invited him to join us.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful.” Miss Pelham tugged again.
“He declined.”
Another tug. “Oh. Too bad.”
Izzy wondered how many more times she could muster the courage to reach out to him. He was so obstinate and determined to isolate himself. Ever since Duncan’s story, she didn’t know what to think. Was he heartbroken over his lost intended? Angry about the loss of his sight and independence? Or was he merely a jilted man licking the wounds to his pride?
In any case, he needed to make his way into the world again—and soon.
She’d read through more than half his correspondence now, and Izzy was forming suspicions. Without conclusive proof, she didn’t dare mention the idea. But she was almost certain the duke’s solicitors were conspiring against him. For what reason, she couldn’t imagine. But he stood to lose far more than this castle if he didn’t rejoin the England of the living soon.
Tonight’s dinner could have been a step in the right direction.
If only.
Miss Pelham gave the corset laces another yank. When Izzy winced, she apologized. “Sorry, Miss Goodnight. But I have to cinch it tight, or the gown won’t fit you.”
She helped Izzy into a gown of poppy red silk. It was Miss Pelham’s gown, of course. Izzy’s wardrobe offered nothing appropriate for a dinner like this one.
“Oh, that color does look well on you. Even if the fit is too tight up top.”
The bodice was tight. Her breasts were pale, quivering scoops overflowing the neckline. Rather scandalous attire, for little Izzy Goodnight. But she had a shawl, and it was only Miss Pelham and Duncan.