“Would you like to come upstairs, then?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
“You are going to behave.”
His smile held a bit of deviltry. “Only if you want me to.”
She couldn’t help herself. She laughed, and oh it felt so good, especially as she’d thought she might never find the wherewithal to laugh again. Reaching around him, she locked the door and then closed her hand around the handle of the basket holding the flowers. “I’ll take this.”
“You might as well. They’re yours.”
“I’ve never seen so many in one place. Or such an assortment.” A myriad of colors greeted her when she looked down. “You must have pleased many a street flower girl today.”
Matthew had actually had his gardener snip them from the gardens at his London residence. He’d wanted at least one of every variety and every color. When he’d left her earlier, he’d had the sense that she was still struggling with the facts of her origins and he wasn’t about to leave her languishing in self-doubt.
He followed her up to her rooms. Having paid them little heed the night before once he’d located her bedchamber, he was now surprised to discover how simple the parlor was. Although it wasn’t precisely a parlor. It was a relatively large room that included a small kitchen, where she had set her basket on a square table. Joining her there, he placed his basket beside hers. He hadn’t actually brought her the pub but rather had asked the cook at his proper residence to prepare something. The dear woman who had served the household for years had been thrilled with the opportunity to provide dishes that would be eaten by more than the servants. He did hope Fancy wouldn’t think anything of the fare being a bit fancier than what was usually served across the street.
“I haven’t a vase,” she said. “Will you be offended if I use a pitcher?”
“It would take a good deal more than that to offend me.”
She brought over a pale yellow piece and began arranging the stems in it. “Feel free to look around, make yourself comfortable. I won’t be but a minute here.”
Wandering away from her, he noted that the remainder of the area was devoted to comfort. A dark blue settee and a low rectangular table rested before the fireplace. On either side of them and nearer to the hearth were two plush chairs of robin egg blue with threads of yellow creating an assortment of swirls. She liked her yellow, it seemed.
The mantelpiece held a framed portrait of four tall men and one tall woman—all young, not much older than twenty if that, he’d wager—standing outside a tavern. The Mermaid and Unicorn, according to the sign hanging over the threshold. An older woman of small stature stood among them. Pressed up against her and nearly buried in her skirt was a tiny sprite who couldn’t be much older than six or seven.
“My family,” she said quietly, coming to stand beside him. “The day Gillie opened her tavern.”
“I thought as much.” Another nearby photograph, also framed, sat a few inches from the first. Based on the gown Lady Aslyn wore and the church behind the assembled group, he assumed it had been taken on the day she stunned London Society by marrying a man with no lineage. Fancy had been on the cusp of womanhood, her grace and charm shining through.
“Shall we eat before it cools?” she asked.
He’d taken it to the pub and asked Hannah to warm it for him, so he hadn’t technically lied when he told her it came from the pub. At the table, he opened the bottle of chardonnay that he’d brought, poured them each a glass, and sat down with her to his left. He liked having her there. He wasn’t surprised to find her china was patterned in yellow and blue. “You like yellow and blue.”
Her smile was forced, didn’t seem to quite belong on her face. “The combination reminds me of the sun and sky on the loveliest of days.”
He found her to be so much like sunshine herself that she brightened the dullest moods—until last night. Now, she was the one needing brightening.
His cook’s chicken slathered in a tart orange sauce was one of her specialties and one of his favorite dishes, yet Fancy ate with the enthusiasm of someone who’d been given an old shoe to gnaw on. Even the wine, an excellent vintage from his cellar, held no appeal for her.
“I inherited coal mines in Yorkshire.” It was a boring thing to admit, but he was unaccustomed to the quiet between them and wanted to bring forth her true smile.
His words seemed to pique her interest a bit, at least enough that she reached for her wine. “Where you grew up.”
He nodded.
“Shouldn’t you be off managing them?”
“I have an excellent foreman who sees to matters. He sends me reports. I do occasionally visit.” More often when he retired to the country after the Season ended.
“Did you ever work in the mines?”
“A few times. Backbreaking labor, but it gave me an appreciation for the men who toiled within them.”
“Do you use children in the mines?”
“In spite of my father’s numerous faults, one of his redeeming qualities was that he didn’t believe in child labor. Except when it came to me. He resented that I should have a childhood. Thought I should take on responsibilities as early as possible.”
