“Let me inform you, ma’am, that I am not considered dangerous until the third bottle.”
Miss Challoner looked at him with a faint smile. “My lord,” she said frankly, “you become dangerous immediately your will is crossed. I find you spoiled, impetuous, and shockingly overbearing.”
“Thank you,” said his lordship. “Perhaps you prefer the sedate demeanour of your friend Mr. Comyn?”
“He seemed to be a gentleman of ordinary propriety, certainly,” concurred Miss Challoner.
“I, on the other hand, am a gentleman of extraordinary impropriety, of course.”
“Oh, not a gentleman, sir, a nobleman,” said Miss Challoner with irony.
“You hit hard, ma’am. Pray, was there anything else in Mr. Comyn that you found worthy of remark?”
“To be sure, sir. His manners were of the most amiable.”
“I’ve none at all,” said his lordship blandly. “Being a nobleman, ma’am, I don’t need ’em. Pray let me pass you this second dish of comfits which has apparently escaped your notice.”
“Thank you,” said Miss Challoner.