Too Wilde to Wed (The Wildes of Lindow Castle, #2)(29)

“Do you need me to show you how to make toast?” she asked, a wry note entering her voice because he hadn’t moved, frozen in place.

“No,” he said, taking his fork and hers as well. She opened her mouth to protest, shrugged, went back to the table and clattered about. The rich smell of fresh butter and a sultry waft of honey filled the room.

He felt a pang of hunger, perhaps because they were such simple foods. Since landing in England, he had discovered that his stomach revolted at mushrooms à la béchamel, hare cake in jelly, and even lamb cutlets à l’échalote, which he used to enjoy.

Pigeons à la poulette made him feel physically ill. Giblets of beef aux fines herbes? No.

But farmer’s bread, turning brown and crispy around the edges, made him hungry. “My brothers and I used to tramp across the countryside carrying bread and roast beef tied up in handkerchiefs,” he said, over his shoulder.

He propped up the forks and pulled one of the chairs close enough that he didn’t have to crouch on the hearth. “We were forbidden to build fires, so naturally we always toasted our bread.”

He didn’t watch as she settled into the other chair. She might have told him, foolishly, that a lady couldn’t be compromised once she accepted a salary. That didn’t mean a man couldn’t seduce her. Not ravish: seduce.

The question was irrelevant, as he had no plan to do either.

“That sounds like fun,” Diana said, curling her legs underneath her. Her toes were delicate and pink. “I always manage to burn my toast, but you’re getting an even brown. Were your brothers as skilled at cookery as you seem to be?”

“Horatius would painstakingly toast his bread to a perfect color on all sides. But I am still waiting for an answer to my question, Diana. Who was your sister’s fiancé?”

“I don’t like to think about him.”

North glanced up, just to be sure that the castle governess had refused to answer his question. Or, to put it another way, that his former fiancée was stirring a jar of honey and ignoring him.

He flipped the toast, and thought about that. Then he tried a new tactic.

“Will you please tell me his name? We needn’t discuss his qualities.”

“Why do you want to know?”

He glanced up as the jar of honey thumped onto the hearthstone next to a plate containing a slab of butter and a dented knife.

“His family ought to support Godfrey,” he said, slathering butter onto a perfectly toasted slice. “I shall make that clear to them. And to your mother as well, by the way.”

“Rose’s fiancé had only a father, who died with him. Why would anyone accept responsibility?”

“Someone must have inherited his land, and along with inheritance comes responsibility. Rose was not any woman; she was a lady and his betrothed. I don’t understand why she didn’t go to his family, if your mother threw her out.”

“My mother continued to support her. Rose sank into a melancholy when her fiancé died, so my mother postponed her plan to bring both of us to London for the Season. And then Rose found out she was carrying a child.”

“That must have been a shock.”

“Rose was happy about it. My mother was not, but she finally accepted it; she was there when Godfrey was born. When she and I moved to London for the Season, Rose couldn’t live with us, obviously, or people would find out about Godfrey. But Mother rented a house for them in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, and we saw them as often as we could.”

North pulled the dipper from the jar and drizzled honey over the toast. “Is this honey from the estate?”

“Yes.” Diana smiled, clearly relieved to drop the subject. “It smells like balsam and sweet alyssum. Lady Knowe experimented last year with planting lavender near the hives.”

North offered Diana a slice of toast, ignoring the bone-deep satisfaction he felt at feeding her.

Her smile grew, reminding him sharply how dangerous this impromptu visit was. Shadows in the room had drawn around them warmly, and even the bed holding her nephew seemed to have retreated from the circle of flickering golden light coming from the fireplace.

It was as if they were in a small boat on a large sea, just the two of them.

He dragged his gaze away after she took a bite of toast, which left her lips glistening and soft. If they kissed, she would taste like butter and honey. His toast had begun to burn, so he pulled it out and slapped on a chunk of butter, which promptly melted and ran down his wrist.

Without thinking, he raised his hand and licked it off, just as he would have as a boy.

“What happened to you?” a curious voice asked.

She was smiling again, damn it.

“You would never have licked yourself in front of me before. Was it going to war? Or is it because I’m not your betrothed any longer? Or because I’m no longer a lady?” There wasn’t any condemnation in her tone, just genuine curiosity.

The damnable thing about the silent castle in the middle of the night was this feeling of seclusion. A boat in the middle of the sea, with no one for miles around.

He’d grown up knowing that the Wildes were an object of curiosity to all England. Attention had become more fierce after he became his father’s heir, and it leapt again after Alaric became famous as an author of travel memoirs.

Printing presses churned out prints that turned them all into objects of public fascination. Privacy had been in short supply for most of his adult life.