She almost choked. Had he been counting? Was his comment sarcastic, an oblique accusation of gluttony? She gulped down some champagne and muttered, “Cook has done a splendid job.”

Around the tables there was a buzz of conversation, something about Rose’s husband and an earl. She couldn’t quite make it out. She glanced across to where her family was sitting on the other side of the room. They all looked happy enough.

The duke followed her gaze. “Lady Rose’s husband looks rather better than the previous time I saw him.”

“Yes, well, he would. He’d had a difficult time of things.” And then before he could make any critical comment about the man who’d supplanted him, she added firmly, “We are all very fond of Thomas.”

“Lady Salter spoke of him earlier—she didn’t seem very fond of him,” the duke observed.

“No, well, Aunt Agatha doesn’t like anyone very much.”

“She likes me.”

She slid him a sideways glance. “Exactly.”

The winter-gray eyes glinted, but whether with amusement or irritation she couldn’t tell.

Her plate was empty. “What will you have next?” the duke asked. “Fruit tartlets? A cream horn? Lemon curd cake? Brandied custard? Jellies, frosted grapes, ice cream? All of the above?”

“Just some ice cream and grapes, thank you.” She couldn’t resist ice cream, and the frosted grapes, dipped in beaten egg white and coated with finely pounded sugar—she’d watched them being made in the kitchen—looked cool and delicious.

He filled a bowl for her, then served himself. She watched with reluctant amusement as he filled his own plate. He’d eaten sparingly from the earlier dishes—that hadn’t surprised her; he was very lean and hard looking—but it seemed the duke had a sweet tooth. It almost made him seem human.

Almost.

“I noticed the other day on the heath that you are a very fine rider, Lady Georgiana.”

George tensed. Here it came, the purpose behind all this attention—his next offer to buy Sultan. Would the dratted man never give up?

She clenched her jaw and waited, but instead he said, “I presume you enjoy hunting.”

“You presume wrong,” she said curtly and turned her attention to the last of her ice cream.

He raised a brow. “You don’t ride to hounds? Then you’re missing—”

“Foxhunting is despicable. It’s cruel and uncivilized and—”

“Nonsense! It’s a fine sport.”

“Sport?” Her temper rose and she put down her spoon with a clatter. “You think it’s sporting? Dozens of men on horseback and a baying pack of hounds, all chasing one small fox?” Despite her vehemence, she managed somehow to keep her voice low. “And when the poor little thing is finally exhausted and cornered, you watch as the hounds rip it apart! It’s utterly barbaric!”

“Foxes are vermin and their numbers need to be kept down.” His voice was cold.