Gently, he placed the foot he’d been massaging on the Axminster, before holding out his hands. “Next.”
She settled her right boot in his hands. “You needn’t play lady’s maid, you know.”
“Lady’s maid? I’m offended.” He untied the knot and loosened the laces. “I’m a page, darling.”
Her lips twitched as if she were fighting off a smile. “Forgive me.”
“Always.” The boot slid away, revealing the same colorful spray of embroidery on her stockings. “How long have you been on your feet today?”
“Most of the day.”
“By God, woman. No wonder your feet are so bloody sore.” He pressed his thumbs into her arch, the same tenseness that he’d found in her other foot greeting him. “What about when you ate dinner? Did you not sit then?”
“I didn’t eat dinner. I was too busy arranging the mushroom baskets to my liking.”
He paused, looking up at her. “You’ve had nothing to eat since luncheon?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“I hired you to make cream ice, not to starve yourself.” He placed her stockinged foot on the carpets and rose, determined to rectify this grievous wrong at once.
“Where are you going?” she demanded to know.
Rhys stalked to the bellpull. “To order something for you to eat.”
“No, you cannot.” She flew from the bed, rushing across the room, and caught him just before he reached the cord. “Please, Rhys. It would be ruinous. You cannot request a tray of food for me to be delivered to your bedchamber.”
Hell. She wasn’t wrong about that. But there was another way he could procure her a meal. One that didn’t involve servants.
He nodded. “I’ll fetch a tray for you myself, then.”
Her eyes went wide. “That would be an even greater disaster. Everyone belowstairs will know why you are procuring food for me.”
“It’s none of their concern who the food is for,” he growled. “They’re paid handsomely to have no opinion on such matters. But if they ask, I’ll tell them it’s for me.”
“I’m truly not hungry,” she protested. “There’s no need for you to go to the kitchens and fetch me dinner. I can wait until the morning without perishing, I assure you. I often get so caught up in my work that I skip the evening meal.”
But Rhys’s mind was already made.
“There will be no skipping of dinners whilst you are under my care,” he informed her. “I’ll go and fetch you a tray, and you are to wait here until I return. Understood?”
Her expression turned mulish, and he could tell she didn’t like the way he had taken command of the situation. But quite likely, she was also hungry, despite her protestations otherwise.
“I’m not asking for your permission in this, Miranda,” he added sternly. “You need to eat.”
As if on cue, her stomach issued an angry growl. She flattened a hand over her midriff, looking mortified by herbody’s indecorous reaction to the promise of sustenance. “Very well. If you insist.”
“I do.” He drew her to him and kissed her swiftly. “Now, please sit and relax. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
As he slipped from his bedroom, leaving Miranda behind, part of him wondered if she would do as he asked or if she would steal back to her own chamber.
“Stubborn woman,” he said under his breath as he stalked down the empty hall.
It was only when he reached the kitchens that he realized he’d been grinning like a fool the whole way there.
“Would you like anything more?”Rhys asked from where he was reclined in a pile of pillows by the hearth. “There is plenty remaining on the tray.”
Between them, the remnants of his kitchen spoils were a temptation that, like the man himself, she shouldn’t indulge in. Miranda’s stomach was full—he had somehow ransacked the kitchens and emerged with a veritable feast for her, which he had brought on a large tray just as he had promised. No servants. No one the wiser, even if she did wonder if the domestics hadn’t found the sight of a duke both obtaining and delivering his own food a bit eccentric.
