Anything he wanted.
“You are assumingmyideal romantic supper would involveyou.” She was not quite able to hold a straight face.
He clutched his hands to his chest. “My heart…It is breaking audibly…”
“Or perhaps that’s your wounded pride,” she said with a laugh. “In Balcovia, I would never invite a man to a cozy dinner for two, much less be charged with determining the meal. I ate whatever was served, which was always rich and plentiful. At formal supper parties, one might find…”
Kuni was animatedly describing her favorite dishes when a windswept maid rushed into the room and handed a tray with a single domed silver platter to one of the footmen.
With much pomp and flair, the footman lifted the silver dome and made a flamboyant bow, bringing the uncovered platter to Kuni’s side. “Madam.”
She stared at the plate bearing four small pastries, then lifted her eyes to the footman.
He gazed back at her, deadpan, though the corner of his mouth gave a little twitch.
Kuni looked at Graham. “What are they?”
“Pies.” He grinned at her. “From the pieman down the street.”
He was joking.
He wasnotjoking. While Kuni had followed the butler, one of the maids had dashed from the house to buy pies from a man in the street.
Kuni stared at Graham, wide-eyed.
A smile flicked at his lips. “Rather than try to impress you, I thought it might be better if you came to know who I really am. My family’s love of cheap pies is all Chloe and Tommy’s fault. When they lived at the orphanage, they used to pick pockets in order to buy halfpenny pies. These two rectangular ones are savory, and the two square pies are sweet. You can have one of each.”
“All right.” She waited for the footman to serve her.
He did not.
After an extended pause, Kuni realized the footman was never going to move. Awkwardly, she reached for her fork.
“With your hands,” Graham explained with a wink. “Tonight, the cutlery is just for show.”
“With my hands,” Kuni repeated. But she reached for the pies and put one of each on her plate. The sweet one was cool to the touch. The savory one was hot, but not too hot to hold. The aroma was divine.
Keeping low, as if he were presenting the season’s finest quail to a king, the footman turned the tray toward Graham, who placed the sweet pie on his plate and held the savory one.
His eyes were mischievous. “I asked myself, ‘What can I possibly offer a person who has been catered to in a palace all her life?’ The only logical answer was: common food. I wanted to give you an experience you might not have had otherwise, and I think it’s fair to guess that not many people can boast being served halfpenny pies on a silver platter.”
He would be right.
“You had excellent presentation,” she told the footman, then picked up her savory pie.
She and Graham took their first bites at the same time.
The pastry was crisp and flaky, the meat tender. Her stomach growled, and her chest warmed. It was a very good pie. Not that she’d had many others to compare to.
“What do you call this?”
“Meat pie.”
She lifted her brows. “Any particular type of meat?”
“Probably.” He grinned at her. “Usually pork of some kind, though not always. Do you like it?”
“I do.” She savored another bite. “I begin to think my king has been overpaying for his meals.”
