Lucien smirked. “Well, I do hope my son will one day be invited to court, but I venture to say that by then he will have grown out of this strange habit. When I was a boy, I would not eat anything orange because I was determined that everything that was orange would taste like a rotten carrot I had once eaten. I remember when my grandmother came to call at Christmastide and brought oranges. I would not eat them because I was convinced they would taste like carrots. In the end, shepresented me with a glass of orange juice and bribed me with a new wooden horse if I would take one sip. I did. It worked.”
She nodded. “Right. I see. Well, I suppose...” She got no further because a loud splash interrupted them. She gasped and looked up, quite mortified to see that the right side of her face was now covered with mashed potatoes. The potatoes, of course, had to be smashed as well, because they would have otherwise tasted round.
Lucien chuckled while Marianne looked absolutely mortified.
“I beg your pardon, Marianne. Henry, what are you doing? We do not throw food at our guests.”
“But she is not a guest. She lives here now,” he said.
“We still do not throw food at ladies,” Lucien said, anger seeping into his voice. He got up and rang the bell, which the staff knew at this time usually meant that he was calling for the governess. The woman appeared less than a minute later, since she was generally stationed right outside the dining room.
“Master Henry shall require a bath. And then he will go to bed.”
“But—” Henry said, his chin wobbling. A tear spilled out of his blue eyes.
“No,” he said. “And before you go, you will apologize.” He walked over to the still-standing Marianne, tears now running down hischubby cheeks. “I beg your pardon, Marianne. I wanted to have a game.”
To her credit, Marianne recovered her composure and placed a hand stiffly on his shoulder. “It is quite all right, Henry. Just do not do it again.”
“I will not,” he said.
As the governess took him away, Lucien closed his eyes and looked at Marianne. She had managed to remove most of the potato from the side of her face, although some blobs remained in her hair.
“Would you allow me to help you?” he asked.
“He is just a child,” she said. “It is understandable.”
“No, it is not,” he said, and picked up his napkin. Then he moved to her side and gently ran the napkin through her hair, picking out the blobs of mashed potato. As he did, his hand brushed against her face, and he noted that she was not wearing any of the crushed white pearl powder that was so popular amongst young ladies. Her skin was naturally fair, rather like porcelain.
And… soft. He felt it when the back of his hand brushed against her skin. It was like silk. A shiver rushed down his spine, and for a moment, he wondered what it might be like to caress her face with his hand, to cup her cheeks. Foolish thoughts. He knew it. And yet, they were there, lingering at the back of his mind.
Making matters worse was her scent. She smelled divine of something like vanilla and cherry.
Quickly, he removed the offending potato from her hair and stepped back, out of the plume of sweet perfume and away from her silky, soft skin and the comfort and joy it promised.
“There,” he said. “Now you are potato-free.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“This is my fault,” he said. “Some weeks ago, the cook made the most atrocious porridge, and I said it was only good for food battles. When I was a boy, my grandfather would on occasion have such food battles with my younger cousins and me. It was quite inappropriate and wasteful, but I had made the comment, and Henry asked if he could try, and I allowed him. It was the only time, and I told him that it was never appropriate to do with actual food. It was just that the porridge was entirely inedible.”
“So you had a food fight with him in the dining room?”
“Oh no. We took it outside. I have no idea why he thought he could do it in the dining room. I do beg your pardon.”
“It is quite all right. And it will give the servants something to talk about.”
“That is certain,” he said with a chuckle.
The two finished the meal in relative peace, although he could not help but look at Marianne, who subconsciously continued to fidget with the right side of her hair where the potato had gotten stuck earlier. She was lovely. Young. And she at least understood children well enough to know that Henry had meant no malice by his actions. He remembered a time in the past when Henry had been just a baby, and Arabella had grown upset because he had thrown up over the side of her gown, as though he had meant to do it on purpose. He shook his head.
“Are you quite all right?” Marianne asked.
“Memories of the past haunting me,” he said. “It is nothing to concern yourself with.”
“I suppose we all carry such memories with us.”
“I suppose we do,” he said. “How is your friend settling in?” he asked, eager to change the subject.
