Spending frugally, she could live off fifteen hundred pounds for the rest of her life. But what sort of life was that—cheap rooms, mediocre food, mended soles, and one or two new frocks per year? She deserved better than that.
“I doubt you’ll be going hungry any time soon, Eliza.”
“No, indeed. I intend to gorge myself on your generosity.” She grinned.
Mark couldn’t help but smile. It wasn’t his habit to blush and grin, but she was an amusing girl, and his cheeks were beginning to ache from holding it in.
As if on cue, his butler appeared in the doorway, just in time to find Mark mooning at their guest. The street urchin. The pickpocket. The radiant young woman in borrowed clothes.
The man frowned as he spoke. “Dinner is served, sir.”
Mark stood and offered Eliza his hand. She was still sore from the beating, and it took her a moment to rise to her feet.
He was often surprised at how small she was. He felt protective of her, even in his own home. Mark hated that his butler judged her simply because she was poor and dispossessed. Eliza had spirit. She had a quick mind and a sharp sense of survival.
He was honored to have her on his arm.
CHAPTER NINE
He escorted her through to the dining room, careful to walk slowly and match her pace. Eliza was grateful because she was very sore. Beneath layers of skirts, petticoats, and underclothes, her skin stung and her muscles quivered.
The hot shower-bath had helped with her aches, but its soothing effect had worn off. Too bad she did not take drink. Eliza needed something to dull the pain.
His dining room was nicely furnished in his usual fashion—gilt-framed artwork and dark, polished furniture that was softened by potted ferns and vases of flowers. A China bowl of yellow roses sat at the center of his table, flanked by two silver candlesticks.
She lifted one to test it’s weight—heavy, expensive. Solid silver rather than silver-plate.
He watched her take stock. A smile pulled at his lips. He’d grinned at her earlier, and to see his dark eyes crinkle with laughter had warmed her heart.
She liked Sir Mark.
“Too heavy to carry beneath your skirts, I’m afraid.”
The butler looked shocked, but Eliza laughed. Yes, the candlestick was too heavy to pinch, but she could easily stow a silver fork or spoon in her stockings.
With a playful grin, she demonstrated just how simple it was to slip her hand across the table and slide a butter knife up her sleeve. “I could rob you blind, piece by piece.”
He held her chair out for her, and she shook loose the knives. Eliza sat, adjusted her skirts, and allowed him to push her chair in.
He was a gentleman. She was a thief. They admired one another across the table.
The horrified butler poured the wine while a pair of footmen served dishes of lamb and roasted potatoes. Eliza spooned mint sauce onto her chop. Everything smelled divine.
Two days prior, she’d eaten a half-slice of cold pie that had gone off, and choked it down with cheap, watery beer. The rancid meal was all she’d had to fill her belly, and beggars could not afford to be choosers. As expected, she had vomited afterward.
Food was scarce in her world. Food that wouldn’t leave her sick was even more rare.
She cut into her lamb, which was cooked to perfection. Not tough or sour, but buttery and fresh. The wine was nice, too.
Sir Mark van Bergen did not know how good he had it.
He was watching her eat, she noticed. Eliza forced herself to slow down, chew, and wield her utensils properly. It had been years since she held a real fork and knife. She usually gobbled her food with her hands, ready to fight off starving beggar-men.
Eliza had some table manners. Her mother had made sure she did not embarrass herself. Mother had believed, incorrectly, that an education and some social graces would be necessary for Eliza’s adult life. But pretty words and good posture had only got her so far with the butcher and their landlord.
Still, Mark looked impressed that she knew her forks.
“Who are you, Eliza. Truly? Were you not born into poverty?”
