“Stop that,cariad.”
She blinked at his directive, issued in a soft, almost tender tone. “Stop what?”
“Thinking.” Gently, he tapped her temple with his forefinger. “I can see your clever brain whirring, crafting all sorts of reasons why you should not enjoy a moment of levity with me.”
How easily he read her. Was she that transparent, or had he simply come to know her so well? Either way, the answer to the question was most disconcerting.
She frowned. “I was thinking nothing of the sort.”
A lie, of course.
But her pride remained strong and stubborn. She would not give him the satisfaction of acknowledging he was correct.
“Hmm,” he said, a noncommittal hum that nettled as he placed her hand in the crook of his arm and led her to the sideboard. “If you say so, my dear.”
How calm and polite he was this morning, how courteous and courtly. To see him now, the consummate gentleman, one would never know the wicked rake hiding beneath his façade. The sinful seducer was nowhere to be found.
She was not sure if she was disappointed or relieved.
Relieved, she decided sternly, and turned her attention to the breakfast awaiting them. Sausages, bacon, poached eggs in stock, ham, and toast awaited their delectation. Her stomach rumbled in most ungracious fashion. After their evening arrival the day before, she had declined an evening meal and retired instead, too disconcerted by the hasty manner in which she had lowered her defenses on the carriage ride. The skipped meal was making itself known.
“Shall I gather breakfast for you?” he asked, sounding amused.
Likely, he had heard the rumble.
She wanted to be annoyed with him, but he was smiling, and his dimple was back. Curse the man. “I am more than capable of filling a plate myself,” she said coolly, and took up a plate.
Everything smelled wonderful. But of course it did. Just as the Marquess of Greymoor had spared no expense in the refurbishing of Haines Court—electricity, hot baths drawn in connecting bathrooms, luxurious carpets, priceless paintings gracing the walls—his chef was equally impressive.
She made her selections, keenly aware of her husband’s proximity as he spooned a generous portion of bacon on his own plate. There were no footmen hovering about in the breakfast room. The absence of servants to act as an audience made her nervous. Izzy finished with haste and took her seat.
Zachary was not far behind, finishing his selections before placing his plate beside hers on the table.
“There is a chair across from me,” she pointed out, her alarm rising. “You need not sit so close.”
“But I want to be close,” he countered softly, seating himself.
She wanted him to be close as well. And that was entirely the problem.
“If you insist,” she grumbled reluctantly.
“I do.” He grinned.
Blast his dimple.
Blasthim.
She directed her gaze to her plate and began to consume the delightful assortment before her, doing her utmost to ignore his presence. No easy feat when his scent teased her and she found herself watching his hands at work and recalling all the pleasures those hands had given her yesterday. All the pleasures they could give her again, if she but allowed it.
“Would you care to go for a ride this morning? Greymoor has an excellent stable.”
His question jolted her from her thoughts. “I do not much care for riding.”
A terrific fall from a mare in her youth had cured her of the desire. She had nearly broken her neck. It was not that she was fearful of riding; Papa had encouraged her to continue and conquer the trepidation, and she had done so. It was merely that she did not prefer riding, when given the choice. And it was the last pastime she wished to indulge in this morning.
“I hadn’t realized that about you,” he said calmly, taking a sip of his coffee.
“There is rather a lot you do not know about me.” She could not keep the tartness from her voice.
