Instead, Henry dipped his fingers in the egg yolk again, licked off one, and then pushed it toward Marianne’s face.
“Look, Lady Marianne, this tastes good. Do you want to try?” The way she flinched backwards at the sight of his egg yolk-stained fingers was a sight to behold. Lucien closed his eyes, but a snort escaped his nose anyhow.
“It is just egg yolk, Marianne,” he said. “It is easily removed.” He grabbed a napkin, maneuvered his son around so he was facing him, and wiped off his hands. “See?” He showed her the napkin.
“I just did not want to stain my dress,” Marianne said. “It is a new gown that my aunt bought me, and she would not like it if it were ruined.”
“If every item of clothing I had that was stained by Henry was wholly ruined, I would be walking around in nothing but my breeches and socks. You have my assurance, the household staff are most capable of removing any stain you can think of.”
“Well, I still prefer not to get any on my clothing in the first place, if it pleases your lordship,” Marianne said. “And I do apologize about the eggs. At home, I usually have hard-boiled. They do not explode in such a manner when pressed.”
“Think nothing of it. Henry must learn. And we prefer soft-boiled eggs because they are perfect for dipping.”
“Dipping?” she said.
“Yes, see.” He took a piece of bread, ripped off the crust, and dipped it in the egg yolk, then ate it. “It is delicious.” He lowered his voice while Henry followed suit. “Also, a wonderful way to get him to eat the bread crusts.”
Marianne took an egg and eyed it suspiciously. She then cracked the top, peeled it, and then, after removing the top, dipped apiece of bread in the yolk. Her eyes widened as she savored the mix of flavors. “This is quite wonderful.”
“Isn’t it? There are a great many secrets you are yet to uncover, thanks to little Henry here,” Lucien said.
The two finished breakfast in an easy manner. Lucien and Marianne conversed as they hadn’t before. Not about anything of substance, but things she had discovered in and around the estate.
And he filled in the gaps, explaining that the sculpture garden was something his father had built, intending to rival his own father’s outside garden maze. By the end of it, Henry had managed to keep the lemon curd on his slice of bread, and no further egg accidents were added to the record.
As Henry got up and ran out, Lucien turned to follow, but looked over his shoulder. “Your presence was most welcome at breakfast, Marianne. I do hope you will join us again.”
“I should like that,” she said. “There may be more delicious foods to uncover.”
“Wait until Sunday. You did not have breakfast with us this Sunday, but next Sunday you really ought to. Mrs. Greaves and Cook come up with the most delicious menus for Sundays.”
He looked at her, her gaze lingering upon him for a moment longer than was strictly necessary, and then she looked away.
He handed Henry off to his governess and then attended to estate matters for a few hours, though he couldn’t deny his thoughts drifted back to Marianne time and again. She was quite different from her sisters.
Due to his friendship with Rhys, he knew Charlotte better than Evelyn. Charlotte was a boisterous, opinionated young woman, and though Marianne seemed to have strong opinions of her own, she was not quite as quick to voice them.
She truly was the opposite of Arabella, who had always had a quick wit and a sharp tongue. It had been one of the things that attracted him to her initially, but it also became something that he had grown to truly resent over the time they were together because so often her sharp tongue was aimed at him. Especially at the end.
He sat up straight, placing his quill down. Why was he thinking of Arabella? He had just been thinking of how unlike Marianne was to her sisters, and now he was thinking about his former wife? What possessed him? There was no comparing the two.
They were nothing alike.
For starters, he had actually wanted to marry Arabella.
It was true he’d also wanted to wed Marianne, but that was different. Sometimes, he wondered if Arabella would have grown into her own as a mother. She’d shown no signs of it, but that might have changed, had she lived.
What sort of mother would she have been? Would she have perhaps one day grown to love Henry once he had grown out of the stage where all he did was cry all night and spit up his bottle? Or would she have continued to be cold and uninterested, leaving his education and everything else to Lucien, the nurses, and the governess?
A knock on the door drew him from his thoughts.
“My lord,” Mrs. Greaves said. “Have you forgotten the time? Her ladyship and Henry are ready for the riding lesson, and you ought to make haste, for it is going to rain soon.”
He looked out of the window, and indeed, Henry was already outside in his little riding habit. Next to him stood Marianne. She too looked regal in her attire—a green riding habit with evening primrose colored underdress, and a green hunting hat that made him chuckle. “Well, she certainly looks the part, doesn’t she?”
“She’s trying to act the part too,” Mrs. Greaves said as she stepped beside him at the window. “I dare say she will do quite well as countess.”
“For a time,” he said. “Pray do not forget that this is not a union that is meant to last a lifetime. She’s not to replace my wife, nor Henry’s mother.”
