“Such as seducing you on the breakfast table?” he interrupted.
A flush stole over her cheeks. “My lord.”
“Shall I fill your plate?” he pressed again, ignoring her look of admonishment, which was bloody adorable.
He enjoyed performing this small task for her. Enjoyed taking care of her. He had missed it. Had missed her. And now that his ire had experienced some time to settle, embracing those old feelings was a welcome change.
Her lips pursed. “You do know I am capable of fetching my own breakfast, do you not?”
Stubborn woman.
“You have reminded me,chérie. I assure you, I have no designs on your independence. All I want is to do something for you.”
To love you.
Wisely, he kept that bit to himself as he strode to the sideboard and removed the covers, selecting everything he knew she would like and heaping it upon her plate.
“What is this?”
Her query reached him, and his gut clenched as he thought about the inscription. As he wondered what her reaction would be.By God, if she laughed, he would be mortified. He reminded himself he was following through with Northwich’s battle plan. He was wooing the hell out of his wife, damn it.
“It is your gift,” he managed with studied nonchalance, selecting a rasher of bacon as his final adornment to her dish.
He looked down at the mounds of food he had piled there and wondered if he had been a tad overzealous in his effort to offer her sustenance.
“You did not need to buy me a gift,” she said. “I hardly expected one. It was nothing more than a game.”
It had been far more than a game to him. Everything between them was. It always had been. Clenching his jaw, he turned back to her, carrying the plate and depositing it beside the book, which she had yet to touch.
“It shan’t bite you,” he told her wryly. “Go on. Have a look at it.”
Her eyes went to the plate first. “Good heavens, Shelbourne. You have filled it with enough food to feed a regiment of infantrymen.”
“Hmm.” He did not like that he was Shelbourne once more. “And how many regiments of infantry are you acquainted with, darling?”
“None, of course.” Her gaze flicked back to him. “But that is—”
“Julianna,” he interrupted firmly. “Accept the breakfast and the bloody gift.”
She caught her upper lip between her teeth and picked up the book at last. His courage fled him, so he returned to the sideboard and piled his own plate full.
“A volume of Keats. That was quite thoughtful of you.”
Thoughtful.He grimaced. Had she read the inscription? He scooped up some strawberries with so much force, he sent a few errant fruit to the Axminster. They rolled. He glared at them.
“Oh,” she said then.
And he wondered if she had witnessed his incidental catapulting of the berries.
Gritting his teeth, he chanced a glance in her direction.
Her luminous eyes were upon him. “Sidney.”
“Julianna.” Nodding in her direction, he returned to the breakfast table as if nothing were amiss.
Every modicum of sangfroid he possessed was being called upon as he seated himself. Took a nonchalant sip of coffee.
“Why did you select a line fromTo Fanny?” she asked.
