The cook carved a piece for him and one for Isabeau, placing it on their plates. Michael looked at the piece of roasted meat before him, the cut tender and juicy, glistening with that glaze in a way that had his mouth watering already. The scent of it was divine—fat and rosemary and thyme, all of it mixing together in the air.
Michael picked up the fork and tasted it. He paused, then frowned again.
“Nay.”
The cook threw her hands in the air in frustration and walked off, too irritated by his second rejection to be near him, it seemed to him. Michael cleared his throat and straightened his back, looking around him and very obviously ignoring the looks both the cook and Isabeau were giving him.
“Now what’s wrong with that one?” Isabeau asked, exasperated.
“Too… duck,” he said after a moment, waving his fork vaguely in the air in front of his face. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he had to bite back a wince at how foolish he sounded.
That wasnae even a sentence!
“Too duck,” Isabeau repeated flatly. “Truly, ye have a poet’s tongue an’ a plump man’s palate, Mr. Gordon.”
“Aye, well, forgive me if I find fault. I only wish the food tae match the occasion,” said Michael with a small shrug.
But he didn’t know why he was being so particular, if he were honest with himself. The food was, objectively, delicious. Both bites he took were more than satisfactory, and he could have just as easily agreed to the rabbit stew or the duck and called it a day.
It would have certainly saved him from spending any more time with Isabeau.
But that was not what he did. What he did was reject both dishes, a bitter taste clinging to his mouth—one that had nothing to do with the taste of the food itself.
The image of her, standing next to Cody Grant at the altar, then eating these dishes with him by her side at the feast of their wedding was like a dagger to the heart. The mere thought was enough to bring forth a wave of nausea, one that he could hardly stop, especially when he was presented with even more food, servants placing plate after plate in front of them.
“Meanin’?” Isabeau asked as she arched a delicate brow, pulling him out of his thoughts.
Michael met her gaze for a fraction too long. “Meanin’ it ought tae be perfect fer the happy couple.”
The words were too bitter, too regretful, dripping with venom. Even to his own ears, his voice sounded strange, foreign.Isabeau’s smile faltered just slightly, and for a heartbeat, neither of them said a thing. Then she looked away, saying, “Then perhaps stop rejectin’ everythin’. At this rate, the only dish left will be boiled oats.”
“Boiled oats are reliable,” Michael said quickly, mostly to cover the sharpness in his chest. “Simple. Uncomplicated.”
“Unlike ye.”
Michael couldn’t help but grin then, despite the knot in his throat. Under their table, their knees brushed as he shifted in his seat, the simple, barely-there touch sending a jolt of desire through him. It was unlike him to be so affected by something so simple, so chaste as this. He was far from a blushing schoolboy, and yet every time he was near Isabeau, he was reduced to his baser instincts, eager to give in to this desire that threatened to consume him whole.
“Ye think me complicated, me lady?” he asked, just to mask the sudden surge of need that coursed through him.
“I think ye impossible tae please,” she replied, reaching for the next plate. “If Cody Grant is anythin’ like ye, I fear we’ll starve at our own weddin’ feast.”
Weddin’ feast. What a joke.
Michael tried to laugh, but the sound came out strangled, forced. “Fer yer information, I’m very easy tae please.”
For a moment, Isabeau stared at him in silence, her face drawn into a puzzled expression. Then, realization seemed to dawn on her and her cheeks heated instantly, turning a bright pink that Michael couldn’t help but find terribly endearing.
“I dinnae think this is somethin’ I need tae ken about ye, Mr. Gordon,” she said through tight lips. “Ye could keep such things tae yerself.”
“Ye were the one who suggested I am impossible tae please,” said Michael with a small shrug. “Perhaps ye should be more careful o’ what ye’re insinuatin’.”
“Perhaps ye should be more careful with what ye reveal.”
Another silence stretched between them. Michael gazed into her eyes, their gray hue like the sky outside. Something passed between them—unspoken, secret, and for a moment, Michael feared she could see right through him.
Across the kitchen, two maids were elbowing each other and whispering behind their aprons, eyes darting toward the pair of them. Michael caught them from the corner of his eye, and he was quite certain he caught some of the words they were exchanging.
—he’s handsome too?—
