“Are you hungry? We can stop for a pastry.” Reed’s low, gravelly voice sent a wave of heat through her.
Sometimes, Goldie thought, she was always hungry. It seemed to be her natural reaction to trying not to eat.
“Are you hungry?” she asked. It would be mortifying to eat alone in front of him.
“Indeed. Carnival treats are a must. We’ll start with a tart,” he edged them to one of the smaller tents that created a sort of alley. One of the first in the long line featured a painted sash hanging above: Miss Mildred’s Boulangère.
Spotting their approach, Miss Mildred, a robust woman in a worn, flour-dusted apron, called out. “Raspberry or apple?”
Lord Standish looked to Goldie, brows raised, for an answer.
“Apple,” Goldie blurted out, even though both sounded amazing.
“One Apple and one raspberry,” he ordered, handing over some coins. “That way, we can both get a taste of each.”
The merchant handed two warm, paper-wrapped pockets over. Goldie took hers, and while she debated removing her gloves, Lord Standish bit uninhibitedly into his.
“Uh oh,” he said. “This one’s yours. But you need to try that one first.”
Aware that he was watching her, Goldie lifted it to her mouth and took a nibble. He frowned, however. “Take a real taste.”
And then, staring into his eyes, she took a larger bite. Hot raspberry sauce exploded on her tongue. It was delicious.
Or was that only because of the company?
Furthermore, how in the world did this feel nearly as intimate as their kiss yesterday?
When she was finished, he raised a hand to his mouth. “You have a little sauce right...” He pointed to his upper lip. “Here.”
Since she was wearing her gloves, her only means of removing it was to use her tongue.
A light in his eyes flared, and when her knees turned to jelly, Goldie dropped her gaze. It was too much.
“Which is your favorite?” he asked after she’d tasted the other tart. Was that a catch in his voice, or was it her imagination?
“I can’t decide. They’re both delicious.” Her own voice came out little more than a whisper.
He cleared his throat. “If we’re going to see everything, we’ll need to keep moving.” And with both her hands occupied now, one with her reticule and the other with the tart, this time, he placed a hand on her back to steer her.
Each small booth offered something unique and colorful—items not sold on Bond Street. The jewelry, although obviously made of paste, gleamed cheerfully amongst silk scarves, bouquets of silk flowers, and every possible kind of candy. She stopped and admired some hair pins but refrained from purchasing anything that she’d need to explain away later. They didn’t stop again until they turned the corner.
“A fortune teller?” A slightly crooked sign hung above this particular tent, and the aroma of incense drifted from inside. “Madam Zeta,” Goldie said. She’d heard of such people—fortune tellers amongst the Romani—but not imagined actually patronizing one. And she never would have if she’d not come out with Lord Standish—with Reed—today.
“None of it is real,” Reed said. His opinion didn’t surprise her. Watching him last summer, she’d deemed him inordinately practical.
It was, she realized, part of what had appealed to her.
“I know,” she said with a sigh.
“But you wish to have your fortune read?” he asked.
Goldie pinched her mouth together. Did she?
They’d paused just long enough to garner the woman’s attention.
“You, sir. Wouldn’t you like to know what lies ahead for you and your young woman?” Madam Zeta pointed at them. Painted eyes stared from the fortune teller’s ageless face, which was framed by black and silver hair adorned with more than one colorful scarf. Her voice was low and raspy and oddly compelling.
“Only if my young woman wishes to.” Reed deferred to Goldie.
