“I—what?”
“You asked what I expect.” He said. “I do not expect you to starve yourself.”
Nine dishes had been placed before them: gravies, meats, puddings, breads and vegetables. If she’d been dining at home, one course at a time, she’d have allowed herself one bite of each, knowing her mother was keeping track, and knowing each bite would make her corset a little tighter.
But her mother wasn’t hear. Nor was her corset.
Mr. Beckworth was preoccupied with his own food, so she tentatively added a flaky filet of fish, bread, potatoes and asparagus onto her plate. Feeling a little naughty, she forked one of the small potatoes and delicately bit into it.
It was so tender! Buttery, with just the right amount of salt.
If she wasn’t a lady, she would have moaned.
“Those are grown on an island,” he said. “Fertilized with seaweed.” His focus remained on his food, but his mouth quirked up a little—as though he approved.
“They’re delicious.” Her voice came out breathy—likely because the potatoes tasted so good. Another bite, and she couldn’t be sure, but she might have, in fact, closed her eyes while she chewed and actually moaned a little.
She caught herself, however, when she felt his stare.
“Mrs. Billings knows her way around a kitchen,” he said.
“Yes.” Clearing her throat, Amelia moved on to the fish, which was equally delectable. Honestly, she’d have thought she’d never eaten real food before.
“Go on,” he urged, nudging her under the table.
Doing her best to ignore that his knee pressed between hers, Amelia’s training required they make polite conversation. Also, he still hadn’t explained what he expected from her.
“I like to know my role, if you don’t mind,” she said. “Otherwise I won’t know how to act.” Was she a prisoner or a guest?
“This isn’t one of your Seasons,” he said, “I think you care too much about other people’s opinions.”
Her first thought was to take offence, but…
He might be right.
“Perhaps.”
He paused, the lip of his tankard hovering at his mouth. He’d obviously expected her to be disagreeable.
“It’s just that,” Amelia persisted, “It would help to have some idea as to what you expect from me.”
He lowered his drink and leaned forward. She did her best to keep her expression indifferent, and yet, every time he shifted, she felt little sparks of heat where his knees touched hers.
“I’ll tell you what I don’t expect. I do not expect you to serve me. I don’t expect you to worry about eating too much, or making proper conversation, or…” His gaze shifted to her decolletage. “Wearing an undergarment that impedes your breathing.”
Fighting the urge to cross her arms over her breasts, Amelia dipped her chin.
“It isn’t usually a problem,” she said. There was nothing she could do to keep heat from flooding her neck and cheeks.
“The bloody thing is dangerous.” He turned his attention back to his food.
She could hardly argue, especially after her painful experience the night before. And, truth be told, she was feeling more comfortable than she had in… forever.
“Perhaps.” This time he didn’t seem as surprised when she echoed her earlier agreement. “But can’t you see why I’m feeling confused?” He was being somewhat reasonable right now, and although she didn’t want to change the mood of their meal, she needed to address the proverbial elephant in the room. “I have no idea why I’m here. Or what any of this is about. You’ve promised not to hurt me, but you have knives, and guns…”
She took a sip of wine as though she hadn’t just confronted him. She even managed to keep her hand from shaking.
The shadows from the candles emphasized the stern shadow of his jaw while the flames highlighted his slick black hair.
