She ignored the implication of his words, taking a delicate sip of the soup. “I cannot think why she would recommend it. It seems the sort of dish for which one’s enthusiasm would inevitably wane. Much like an unwanted husband.”
The last was unnecessarily cutting, but if she was going to suffer through fourteen more such dinners, she needed to build the bloody walls high.
She needed to build a damned fortress.
“Or,” he suggested after a lengthy silence, “it is the sort of dish which leaves one’s palate forever changed. Regardless of the time that has passed or the other soups one has tasted,potage à la princeretains its allure.”
She skewered him with a look. “You are outdoing yourself with silly metaphors, my lord.”
He raised a dark brow. “I was merely speaking of the soup course, my dear.”
Gritting her teeth, she turned her attention back to the food before her. And to her wine. She was on her second glass by the time therissoles à la reinearrived. The earthiness of the truffles was a delight to her senses, for this, too, was another favorite of hers. Unless she missed her guess, her clever husband had rewritten the evening’s menu to make certain it would appeal to her.
“I shudder to think what is coming next,” she grumbled, forking up a delicate bite smothered with béchamel sauce and fried parsley. “I shall not fit into any of my gowns by tomorrow morning.”
“If I had my way, you would not need gowns for the next fortnight at least, Lady Needham,” her scoundrel of a husband told her,sotto voce.
Longing swept through her. Desire throbbed to life in her core, the ache so intense she nearly emitted a groan of frustration, right there at the dinner table before a pair of footmen. As it was, she choked upon a bite of her food.
She attempted to recover by pouring the rest of her wine down her throat.
“Nellie?” The playfulness had vanished from his expression and tone. In its place was stark concern.
She gulped frantically at her wine until it was gone and then sputtered while she waited for a footman to refill her glass. “Perfectly well,” she gasped.
“That was not quite the reaction I was hoping for.” His tone was wry.
Nell drank some more wine, noting he had none at his place setting. She had not seen him imbibe, nor tasted it on his lips, since his return. Perhaps that bit of what he had told her was true. Still, his stand was too little, too late.
And as for herself? She had no stand save one: divorce. Preserving her heart as well. Make that two.
She hiccupped into her wine.Lovely.Just what she needed. First she had nearly choked, and now she was hiccupping. Would her humiliation know no bounds?
Nell cast him a glare and gulped some more wine, then held her breath for good measure.
“That does not work, you know.” His tone was knowing. “There was only one way you could ever get rid of your hiccups, my love.”
She intensified the force of her glare and released the breath she had been holding. “If my nearly choking was what it required you to cease playing your silly games, I suppose I ought to be—hiccup—grateful.”
Blast.
“Shall I prove the veracity of my claim?” he asked calmly, his gaze dipping to her mouth.
Her lips tingled. So did the place between her thighs. To her mortification, she was wet. From the memory of his mouth on hers. From that green stare. Her pulse was pounding in her pearl. She needed more wine, clearly.
She gave him her most ferocious frown. “No, thank you.Hiccup.”
Unbidden, memories of the ways he had once cured her hiccups returned. With kisses, always. And sometimes, with more. Once, they had been at a ball and they had both drunk themselves silly. She had hiccupped through a waltz, and he had led her to a darkened chamber, bent her over a chair, and slid deep inside her.
She hiccupped again, her cheeks going hot at the memory. Jack’s stare on her said he remembered, too. He jerked his gaze from hers.
“Leave us to enjoy the remainder of this course,” he instructed the footmen.
They were gone in a moment, the door closing at their backs.
Jack rose from his seat.
She shook her head. “No!Hiccup.”
