Bartle held up the tray of roast, waggling his brows.
She’d already had one slice, slightly rare with a delicious bit of gravy. A tiny slice. Only three small potatoes. Probably enough.
Lucy glanced across the table to see her new husband studying her intently with a small frown. Lady Dufton had recognized her potential to grow stout in the future if she wasn’t cautious. Perhaps Estwood had noticed the same. Patting her lips with a napkin, she waited for her plate to be removed.
“More roast for my wife,” Estwood said to Bartle. “And another roll. A bit of”—he gestured to a platter of vegetables—“whatever that is.”
Bartle shrugged. “Not sure.” He came around to where Estwood sat. “How am I doing?” She heard him whisper.
“Grand,” her husband said quietly back to him.
Bartle straightened, smiling the entire time.
Lucy had the impression Bartle didn’t regularly serve dinner, which was…odd, given he was clearly Estwood’s butler, wasn’t he? But his hands shook while serving Lucy another piece of roast, as if half afraid to drop it on her. More of the vegetables. More potatoes. Butter dripped off the roll placed before her.
Lucy looked aghast at the amount of food on her plate.
“I don’t intend that you should starve,” Estwood said, once Bartle fled the room. “I’m familiar with the sensation, though I suspect not for the same reason.”
Lucy tore off a piece of the roll and placed it on her tongue, embarrassed when a moan escaped her at the taste.
“Hmm.” Estwood kept his gaze fixed on her and took a sip of the wine Bartle had served him. His lips wrinkled in distaste. “I keep hoping I’ll get used to this. Wine. But here we are, years later, and I still prefer a good ale.” He took another sip. “Do you like wine, Mrs. Estwood?”
She nodded.
“Words, please. I long to hear them.”
“Yeth.”
“Then drink yours and stop worrying over whether someone is going to steal your plate before you’ve had your fill.”
Lucy’s lips tightened at his rebuke.
He grinned back at her. “Eat. Or at least, take another bite of roll. I quite enjoyed the sound you made.”
Warmth burned her cheeks. The comment was laced with innuendo.
Earlier, at the conclusion of their vows, Estwood had lightly brushed his lips against her own, far less than a proper kiss. She had stared at his mouth as it descended, the brush of his beard and mustache over her skin far softer than Lucy had anticipated.
“Eat,” he said once more. “You’ve barely had anything. You’ll hurt Mrs. Bartle’s feelings.” Estwood’s aristocratic accent, theone he adopted in public, had faded over the course of dinner and taken on that rough, melodic cadence once more. Bartle sounded much the same.
Working class Yorkshire.
Now that he wasn’t hiding it, she heard his accent clearly.
“Do you like the country?”
“Yes,” she murmured, relieved that the lisp stayed quiet.
Estwood leaned over the table. “Louder.”
“I adore the country,” Lucy repeated, before picking up her fork once more. “Nearly as much as this roast. You’re from Yorkshire.”
One brow raised. “I am. Redcar, to be exact. It’s a village outside of Middlesbrough. Near the Cleveland Hills.”
Ah, no wonder he knew about Marsden. “I understand the moors are lovely.”
“Stunning.” Estwood’s mouth curved slowly. “All that purple heather.” The gray of his eyes grew darker, like matching thunderclouds. “Perhaps I’ll take you for a picnic. You like picnics, as I recall.”
