"It was soggy."
"Details," Mrs. Morrison said, waving dismissively.
Alaric found himself enjoying this ridiculous conversation more than any he'd had in London in the past year. There was something refreshing about the easy banter, the lack of hidden meanings and social maneuvering. Marianne said her cherry tart was soggy, and she meant exactly that—not that someone's reputation was questionable or that their marriage prospects were dim.
Chapter 3
"So, Mr. Fletcher," Mrs. Morrison said, settling into what was clearly going to be an interrogation disguised as conversation, "are you married?"
"Mrs. Morrison!" Marianne protested.
"What? It's a reasonable question. A handsome man of his age, surely some sensible woman has snapped him up."
"No one has snapped me anywhere," Alaric said. "I remain unsnapped."
"How extraordinary. And why is that?"
"Perhaps I'm not as handsome as you suggest."
"Nonsense. You have excellent bone structure and all your teeth. That's more than most men can claim."
"The bar seems rather low."
"You haven't seen the local options," Marianne muttered, then blushed when she realized she'd said it out loud.
"Are the local men particularly toothless?" Alaric asked.
"Not toothless, just..." Marianne searched for a word. "Agricultural."
"She means they smell like sheep," Mrs. Morrison clarified helpfully.
"I did not mean that!"
"You did a little."
"Maybe a little," Marianne admitted. "But it's an honest living."
"Of course it is, dear. But you can't marry a man who smells like livestock. Think of the wedding night."
"Mrs. Morrison!" Marianne's face had turned an impressive shade of red.
"What? I'm being practical. Physical compatibility is important in a marriage."
Alaric choked on his tea. Grimsby, still standing by the door, made a sound that might have been a suppressed laugh or possibly a death rattle.
"I think," Marianne said, standing abruptly, "I should get back to the bakery. The afternoon bread won't bake itself."
"But you've only just sat down," Mrs. Morrison protested.
"And now I'm standing up. Mr. Fletcher, it was interesting to meet you. I'm sure we'll see each other around the village. It's rather unavoidable."
"I look forward to the inevitability," he said, standing as well.
She gave him an odd look, as though trying to figure out if he was making fun of her or not, then seemed to decide it didn't matter. "Try not to let Mrs. Morrison force-feed you too much cake. She believes sugar solves all problems."
"It does!" Mrs. Morrison insisted.
"It causes more problems than it solves," Marianne countered.
