Still Ethan stood in the drive, wondering if he’d ever seen Mr. Harold once pause to study a bug? Seen him take either boy by the hand? Heard the man sing?

Had Ethan ever done those things with the boys himself? Even once?

The questions were vexing him several hours later as he made his way to the family parlor where Miss Portman would join him prior to the evening meal. Perhaps it was the effect of several hours at his desk, but Ethan realized he was looking forward to the next hour. Food was always a pleasure, but Miss Portman’s presence was the added spice that had him glancing at the clock and wondering what she’d wear to the table.

She wore a frown and the same dusty traveling dress she’d had on all day.

While Ethan had bathed and changed into clean clothes.

“I see you did not change for dinner,” Ethan remarked as the footman closed the door behind her.

Miss Portman eyed him up and down. “I was told you keep country hours and you do not change, when you bother with sitting at the table at all.”

Ethan gave her the same up and down perusal she’d given him, though compared to a governess’s virtuosic ability to communicate disapproval at a glance, he was a mere tyro. “I gather you would prefer to be spared this ordeal?”

She peered around the room. “Honestly, the chance to sit down and eat something appeals greatly.”

“You’ve been standing the livelong day? I should offer you a drink, at least some wine.”

She shook her head. “No wine. It does not agree with me, but thank you. And yes, I have been on my feet.”

“If you’re to forgo your gustatory glass,” Ethan said, “why don’t we go in to dinner, and you can regale me with the details of your day while we dine?”

“Because that would be unappetizing,” Miss Portman informed him, her tone so wistful, Ethan felt his lips trying to quirk up. He offered his arm, keeping his eyes on the door instead of Miss Portman’s face.

“As bad as all that?” he asked, leading her toward the folding doors to the informal dining room.

“As tiring. What have you done with yourself since abandoning your children in the driveway this afternoon?” A small silence followed, while Ethan observed the courtesy of seating a woman who delivered scolds as casually as others might offer pleasantries.

“Forgive me.” Miss Portman closed her eyes and blew out a breath. “I am fatigued, and therefore cranky.”

“And here I go, demanding you put up with me when all you want is to climb into bed. Are your rooms acceptable?” He poured her a glass of wine as he spoke, and passed it to her.

“They are lovely.” She offered a tired smile, and Ethan noticed she had smudges of shadow under each eye and a slight droop to her shoulders. “The view of the back gardens is wonderful, and the balcony is a luxury this time of year.”

“All the bedrooms at the back of the house have balconies.” He gestured to the footman, who served the soup, then waved the man away. The remaining courses were put in the center of the table so the diners might serve themselves. When the footman had retreated and closed the door behind him, Ethan found a familiar frown on Miss Portman’s face.

“You are going to be difficult because I dismissed the footman,” he surmised. “You would rather have us discussing the weather all evening than allow us the privacy of a single meal?”

She answered him with a measuring look. “I would rather you had asked me if I were comfortable dining en famille.”

Ethan sipped his wine and waited for her to take the first taste of her soup. “How did you spend your initial hours here at Tydings?”

“Chasing your offspring.”

“You were touring the premises?”

“The grounds first.” Miss Portman kept glancing around the table, as if looking for something or finding fault with the settings. “After two days of travel, the boys needed to stretch their legs, and then too, you’ve gone and gotten them ponies, whose acquaintance I had to make or civilization would crumble. When they’d burned off the worst of their mischief, we inspected the house from top to bottom, with particular attention paid to all the best hiding places for when Papa goes on a tear.”

Ethan set his wineglass down. “I beg your pardon?”

“I gather it’s a rare occurrence and mostly consists of a lot of yelling at solicitors and stewards, and cursing, and stomping about, followed by a slammed door or two and the sound of Argus’s hoofbeats tearing off at a gallop.”

“They told you this?”

“With great relish. You had best eat your soup, Mr. Grey. I do not intend to consume mine.”

“Whyever not?” Ethan picked up his spoon, manners be damned.

“It has onions in it. They do not agree with me.”

“And you are probably not partial to mutton sandwiches, either,” Ethan remarked. He hadn’t noticed the onions in the soup until she’d pointed it out. He liked onions in his soup, and if he were to eat mutton sandwiches, he’d probably like onions on them too.

“Nobody from the North is partial to mutton. But by all means, enjoy yourself.”

Ethan put his spoon down, certain she was teasing—rudely, of course—but unable to detect a hint of it in her expression.

“It’s gotten a bit too cool,” he decided. “Shall we see what else the kitchen has prepared?”

Miss Portman’s brows flew up. “Who sets the menus?”

“Haven’t the foggiest.” Ethan lifted the lid of a warming dish and found a tidy little quarter of a ham, with potatoes arranged around it. “The food shows up when I’m hungry, and the dishes disappear when I’m done. Ham, Miss Portman?”

“Please.” She watched as he sliced her a generous portion, chasing little boys being a tiring proposition. “A bit less, if you please?”

“Less?” He cut off a corner of her intended portion.

“Even less. About half that, in fact.”

He complied without comment and deftly moved it to her plate. “Potatoes?”

“One,” she instructed, so he chose the largest one.

“Well, then.” Ethan served himself portions that made his guest quite frankly goggle, a lapse in her manners he noted and politely ignored.

“Let’s see what else awaits us.” He uncovered a plate of roast beef. Another platter held a small roasting hen complete with bread stuffing, a basket of bread, and a tureen of dumplings swimming in more gravy.

“This will do for me,” Miss Portman said, putting a bite of ham into her mouth.

“You’re not having anything else? Nothing?” He had the oddest sense she wasn’t being rude.

“This will do.” She took a sip of her wine, grimaced, then set the glass down.

“Suit yourself.” Ethan proceeded to put decent helpings of food on his plate, then to make his portions disappear with a kind of relentless dispatch that did not allow for conversation. And even as he demolished his dinner, he did so wondering how he would endure meals with Miss Portman for the next six months. When his plate was nearly clean, he looked up to find his guest regarding him curiously.

“Is this the kind of fare your sons consume?”

“I suppose.” He sat back but did not put his utensils down. “Why?”

“Don’t you see something missing from your table, Mr. Grey?”

“Dessert. Fear not, it will be here, as I do enjoy the occasional sweet.”

“Not dessert,” she replied, her tone annoyingly patient. “Something more conducive to the good health of a growing child.”

“I’m not serving ale at my table, Miss Portman. We have it in the kitchen, and I’ll occasionally have a pint, but it hardly adds to a genteel supper.”

She eyed her wineglass balefully and forged ahead.

“Vegetables, Mr. Grey,” she said on a long-suffering sigh. “You have no summer vegetables. You have nothing from the abundance of the good earth but potatoes. I know this will strike you as a radical notion, but children need vegetables, even if they should forgo the spicier preparations.”

Ethan glanced around the table, nonplussed. At Belle Maison, there had been vegetables at every meal save breakfast. It was high summer, for pity’s sake, when the garden was at its best.

He put his utensils down. “I am willing to concede the wisdom of your point. Henceforth, you will meet with Cook and approve the menus. I will have my desserts, though, Miss Portman. It’s little enough to ask in life at the end of a man’s busy day.”

“Fear not,” she quoted him. “I will agree with you—mark the moment—a little something sweet at the end of the day is a deserved reward.”

Unbidden, the question of what Alice Portman might consider a treat at the end of her day popped into Ethan’s mind. A fairy tale read to a rapt juvenile audience, or did she harbor girlish fancies to go along with her tidy bun and studious spectacles?

He took a fortifying sip of his wine and offered her a salute with his glass.

“A moment of accord,” he noted gravely. “How unusual.”

“I won’t make a habit of it. The books in your schoolroom being a case in point.”

“Oh?” Ethan resumed the demolition of his dinner.

“They are boring, for one thing,” she said, sitting back and watching him eat. “And they are far too advanced, for another, and lack anything like the breadth of subject matter little boys require.”

“You were a little boy once, perhaps, that you are expert on the matter?”

She leveled a reproving look at him, which he noted between bites of potato.

“There is more to a boy’s education than drilling into him the dates of ancient battles, Mr. Grey. More to history than the Greeks, the Romans, and the British. More to languages than five declensions and four classes of verbs.”