What on earth was he on about now?
He gave her a pointed look and then speared a piece of the offending dish on his fork, reached across the table, and held it up to her lips.
“Prove it,” he murmured.
“You want me to eat this?” she asked though she felt immediately silly afterward. It was implied after all.
“Yes.” Again, it was more of an order than a request.
She opened her mouth to protest, but Evan merely raised a brow as if to quell any further argument.
“Come now, sweetheart,” he murmured, coaxing. “Surely you are not asking me to do something you yourself cannot manage?”
Insufferable. Truly, he was. He was testing her to prove his point. But she would not let him win.
Two can play can at this game, Your Grace.
Lifting her chin, she parted her lips, allowing him to place the bite of food onto her tongue. The flavor hit instantly—bitter, overpowering—and she had to fight the urge to grimace herself.
But she was not going to let him have the satisfaction of being proven right. So, she forced herself to chew slowly and swallow gracefully, keeping her expression utterly neutral.
Evan watched her with fascinated amusement, his dark gaze flickering to her lips as she swallowed.
He smirked.
Isadora’s stomach tightened.
She could feel the warmth creeping up her neck, the telltale burn of a blush rising to her cheeks.
No.
She refused to let him see her flustered.
She turned her embarrassment into irritation, lifting her napkin with perfect composure and dabbing at the corners of her mouth.
“See?” she said coolly. “It is not so difficult.”
Evan hummed, but there was a knowing look in his eyes—one that said he had noticed the blush, noticed the slight hesitation before she had spoken.
“You are a better actor than I am,” he commented, his gaze never leaving hers.”
“It is improper to show disdain for a meal that has been prepared for you,” she emphasized. “And really—it doesn’t take much.”
“Then we have a difference in opinion there,” he settled. “I am not too fond of putting up an act. It’s better for me to be honest about my opinions.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “This has nothing to do with honesty. Only manners.”
“Well then,” he murmured, sounding entirely unconvinced. “As you say. Shall we continue?”
Isadora exhaled, willing her composure back into place.
She would not let him win.
Evan was watching her again, his elbow resting lazily on the arm of his chair, fingers tracing absently along the rim of his glass.
“Yes. Let us move on to table conversation.”
“Ah, so now you will instruct me on what I am allowed to say?”
