“A dreadful cacophony.” He shuddered.
“A point of great pride for any housekeeper,” she argued stoically. “I will be pleased to consult Mrs. Gilliebrand myself so that I may arrange the cream ices and cornets to best pair with the menu each day.”
He nodded. “Only promise me that you will provide apple and ginger cream ice one of the days, if you please. I’ve been consumed by thoughts of having it upon my tongue again ever since I tasted it last.”
There was something potent and sensual about the way he uttered those words, as if he were speaking of more than mere cream ice. His gaze was inscrutable and deep blue, piercing hers as he brought the soup spoon to his mouth. She caught her wine goblet in trembling fingers and raised it to her lips, needing the fortification.
When she had all but drained the glass, she replaced it upon the table linens, aware of the amused smile he sent in her direction. He knew the effect he had upon her, the wicked rake, and he was well pleased by it. But what did he expect? She would have had to be fashioned of stone to be unaffected by the potent lure of the Duke of Whitby.
“I will make certain to find a meal best suited to the apple and ginger cream ice,” she forced herself to say.
As if her heart weren’t racing. And as if her nipples hadn’t tightened into aching buds beneath the punishing constriction of her corset. Green had tight-laced her with far more vigor than Miranda was accustomed to, particularly since she ordinarily did for herself. Now that she was seated, the boning was pinching her sides. Neither the slight biting pain, however, nor the tightness detracted from the reaction her body had to the sensual rake opposite her.
“Thank you.” He nodded toward her as-yet-untouched bowl. “Now I must exhort you to eat your soup. It is a delight, thoughit pales in comparison to the marriage of flavors you created in your dessert.”
Yes, she ought to eat, and for no better reason than she was famished and consuming her soup would provide an excellent distraction. She spooned some of the broth and brought it to her lips, reminded of the etiquette that had been sternly embossed upon her soul by a demanding governess years before. Here was a reminder of how it felt to eat in company. To cling to manners and societal niceties, neither of which had the slightest thing to do with hunger.
The soup was excellent, laced with sherry and fresh herbs, but it may as well have been gruel. She couldn’t seem to enjoy it when she was seated at the table with the Duke of Whitby. He stole all the air from the room. His golden, seductive presence denied her the simple pleasure of enjoying the fine meal laid before her.
She consumed her bowl, trying not to look at him.
But it was no use.
“More soup?” he asked.
“I shouldn’t indulge.”
“Whyever not?”
“There are a great many other dishes upon the table,” she reasoned.
He ignored her and served her another ladle of the delicious dish. “But you want more,” he pointed out, and quite correctly too. “Why deny yourself?”
The decadent scent of the soup teased her nostrils. She was close—so close—to bringing the spoon to her lips and draining her bowl a second time. But there seemed to be a more important point to be made, one that superseded all else.
“Miranda,” he prodded gently. “Go on. Eat the bloody soup.”
Her gaze jolted to his. They engaged in a battle of wills that finally saw him sighing and lifting the dome over one of theother dishes. “Sirloin of beefà la Pompadour. Would you care for a slice?”
“Please.”
He carved into the roast and produced a perfectly proportioned slice for her. The rest of the domes were lifted to revealharicots verts, potatoes, asparagusà la Princesse, braised lettuce, and a salad of carrots.
Her plate was filled, the duck soup still calling to her longingly from her bowl. Determined, Miranda turned her attention to the various foods on her plate, cutting dainty, judicious bites.
“Your soup is growing cold,” he remarked knowingly.
She ignored him, sawing at her beef with more vigor than the tenderized loin required.
“Stubborn to the last, I see.”
Again, she said nothing.
“Tell me about yourself, Miranda. Do you have any siblings?”
It didn’t surprise her that Whitby was more aware of her divorce and the scandal it had caused than he was of her family’s makeup.
“I have two younger sisters and one brother who is my junior by a year as well.”
