Bloody hell.

The horrific scent of smelling salts was enough of a catastrophe to contend with, but now Grace was sobbing as if Noble were dead. Which, he wasn't. He couldn't be. Perfectly healthy adults didn't just die at the dinner table. No, Noble was fine and just being a bloody idiot in front of Mr. Lestrange who would likely never attend dinner at their house again.

She walked around the edge of the table, careful not to bump into Mr. Lestrange or any of the other members of her family and gripped Grace's arm. "Let Ford and Mama handle it," she instructed her sister in what she hoped was a gentle tone. She wasn't panicked, but she was fuming. The last thing Mr. Lestrange needed to think was that she was insensitive. She wasn't, because Noble was fine. "We can wait in the parlor."