Because Elizabeth was smiling. Not politely. Not dutifully. She wasenjoying herself.And the way her gaze flicked toward Pomfrey with genuine interest.
Christ, it was unbearable. As if she were finally beginning to see him as a match. As if she could move on.
Something dark twisted inside him.
Before he could stop himself, he leaned forward across the table, voice mild but unmistakably pointed. “I wonder, Lord Pomfrey… have ye ever played an instrument? Or do ye simply read up on them so ye can impress pretty lasses at dinner parties?”
Pomfrey blinked, caught off guard. “Alas, no, Your Grace. I’ve never had the talent for music.”
“A pity,” Alasdair drawled. “Though if ye intend to offer information, it might do ye good to study more thoroughly. Then ye wouldnae call Mozart a German, or a Frenchman, God forbid.”
Even as the words left his mouth, he winced inwardly. He himself had nearly made the same mistake once. But logic had no place when jealousy curled hot behind his ribs.
Elizabeth stiffened.
“Your Grace,” she said sweetly, though her eyes blazed with warning, “you of all people should know anyone might slip now and then. Lord Pomfrey has otherwise shown impeccable manners and engaging conversation.”
Pomfrey, bless him, looked more bewildered than wounded. He clearly had no idea he’d wandered into the middle of a battlefield.
Across from Alasdair, Seth barely suppressed a laugh behind a cough.
“Me apologies,” Alasdair said, though his tone betrayed no contrition. “I meant nae harm. Only that a man ought to be informed afore he opens his mouth—or else keep it shut.”
A tense silence followed.
Alasdair could feel the pulse of Elizabeth’s irritation, sharp as a slap. And worse, the way Pomfrey gave her a sympathetic smile, as if to sayDon’t mind him.
She smiled back.
Something hot flared in Alasdair’s chest. He didn’t recognize it at first.
Possessiveness.
Then, thankfully, dessert arrived, breaking the moment. Custard was served in delicate porcelain bowls, and around them, the guests collectively exhaled as if a storm had just passed. The awkward tension gave way to polite murmurs and clinking silver.
Alasdair reached for his spoon, but froze.
Elizabeth’s fingers curled around hers with delicate precision. Her head tilted just slightly, eyes on the dish before her. Slowly, she dipped the spoon, gathering the pale cream with an elegance that was suddenly… alarming.
No.
She wouldn’t.
Not here. Not for Pomfrey.
But she did.
She tasted the custard with a careful, deliberate flick of her tongue against the spoon’s edge. Her lips parted just slightly as the cream touched her mouth, and her lashes fluttered just a fraction, but enough.
Enough to turn it from a bite into a performance.
Subtle. Sophisticated. Devastating.
Alasdair nearly groaned aloud.
Pomfrey dropped his spoon. It clattered against his plate with a loudclangbefore he scrambled to recover it, ears turning red. He kept stealing glances at Elizabeth as if unsure what had just happened, but desperate to see it again.
Alasdair’s jaw flexed. His grip tightened around his spoon until his knuckles turned white.