“You have apple pudding in the hamper?” she asked him, slanting a curious glance in the direction of the picnic he had laid out.
He smiled again. “Would I arrange for a picnic with my Vivi and forget the apple pudding?”
She was about to tell him that she was decidedly nothisVivi when he took her hand in his and guided it to the crook of his elbow.
“Never,” he added.
And then he led her to the blanket he had spread in the bailey of Lynwood, and she decided that perhaps there wasn’t any harm in sharing apple pudding with Court after all.
CHAPTER7
“Just one more bite of the apple pudding,” Court urged Vivi as they sat at a proper distance opposite each other on the counterpane. “Look at how much remains. It’s a sin to waste Cook’s delicacies.”
“I couldn’t.” She shook her head, resting her hand lightly on her stomach. “You brought enough food to feed an entire infantry brigade.”
She exaggerated, but perhaps he had requested too much sustenance be packed in the hamper for just the two of them. As it stood, his primary hunger was for Vivi herself, and no amount of cold ham, cheeses, roast chicken, or apple pudding would sate him. It had required all the restraint he possessed to remain where he was as they shared their repast instead of crawling across the blanket and devouring her as he longed to do. But he knew she needed time and wooing, and he intended to give her everything she required and more.
“I hope you enjoyed the picnic, despite the company you were forced to keep,” he said lightly, bracing himself on one flattened palm as he crossed his ankles in an effort to keep his thundering need for her at bay.
Her spine stiffened, and he regretted his words, the reminder that they were at daggers drawn. Perhaps she had forgotten during their easy meal, when they had been more concerned with the food and wine laid before them than the past and the ugly shadow it cast on the present.
“I enjoyed it well enough,” she said primly, reaching for her wineglass and bringing it to her lips.
Her grudging response was perhaps a small victory.
He took a sip of his own wine, considering his next words with care. “You said there was gossip about me whilst I was abroad. Might I ask what was said?”
“I would prefer not to discuss it.” Her voice was quiet, laced with hurt.
“I fear we must,” he told her gently. “I cannot speak to the scandal broth unless I know what it is.”
She huffed a small sigh, her sky-blue gaze flitting away from his, settling on the remnants of her apple pudding. “It was said that you were an honored guest of the Baroness d’Olivier in Paris. And that you attended one of Lady Hazlehurst’s grand parties.”
He hadn’t known his actions were fodder for so much gossip. If he had, he would have taken greater care. His every interaction had been innocent enough, however, and was easily explained.
“The Baroness is fifteen years my senior and a friend of my mother’s,” he said. “She insisted I join her for a dinner one evening while I was in Paris, and I accepted out of obligation.”
“Her reputation precedes her,” Vivi grumbled, frowning at him as she swung her gaze back to his. “Surely you are aware of that.”
The baroness did indeed have a well-known appetite for lovers. As far as Court could tell, she and the baron were happy to live their lives separately and to share their beds with whomever they liked.
“I understand that she and her husband enjoy a certain arrangement,” he said judiciously. “However, I can assure you that there is only one woman whose bed I wish to share, and she is most assuredly not the Baroness d’Olivier.”
“And what of Lady Hazlehurst, then?” she asked next, clearly ignoring the implication in his words. “Surely she is not also a friend of the dowager’s.”
The widowed Marchioness of Hazlehurst was a collector of paintings andobjets d’art. She was also a vivacious flirt and a Parisian hostess famed for her wild fêtes and string of lovers. But she’d been in possession of something Court had desperately wanted—a singing bird box just like the one Percy had given to Vivi years before, only for it to have been lost in a small library fire at Edmonds House. He had the bird box packed in a trunk that would hopefully be arriving soon; sending it to her had felt somehow wrong, and carrying it with him during his travels had felt like keeping a part of her near to him.
“She had something of great personal value to me in her possession,” he answered honestly. “I attended her gathering with the intent of speaking to her about it, nothing more.”
“And what was it that she had in her possession?” Vivi demanded to know, her voice taking on a note of suspicion, as if she didn’t believe him and was intent upon finding a hole in his explanation.
“I can’t tell you now.”
Her brows drew together. “Why not?”
“Because it would spoil the surprise, sweetheart.”
Her silk skirts were artfully arranged about her, cleverly hiding everything but her embroidered boots from view. He was sorely tempted to trail his fingers over a boot, to trace the cream-colored flowers and intricate emerald vines, skim beyond the laces, and find her calf.
