Strathaven was sitting up in his tester bed, lounging against pillows, a portrait of sartorial elegance in his black silk dressing robe. At the same time, there were hints of vulnerability, too: his thick raven hair was tousled, and shadows hung beneath his eyes. He studied a letter, then tossed it impatiently onto the pile of correspondence on the bed.
“Good afternoon, your grace,” she said.
His head jerked up, and pale green eyes roved over her. “You came after all.”
“I said I would.”
“How rare. A woman who keeps her word,” he drawled.
She was about to retort in kind when Mr. Jarvis’ words came back to her. Was the duke’s surliness a shield of sorts? Had he been hurt in the past—by his family? Or someone else?
Even so, it’s no reason for him to snap atme.
With a patience honed from raising four siblings, she counted to ten in her head. “I’m only late because of this.” She tapped the wicker basket. “Our chef is territorial when it comes to the kitchen. I had to wait until he went out to the market before I could use it.”
His dark brows came together. “Why would you need to use the kitchen?”
“To cook, of course.” Spotting the tray on the side table, she went to unpack the basket’s contents. She brought the tray over to the bed and placed it over Strathaven’s lap.
He stared down as if he’d never seen stew or bread before. “You made that? For me?”
The odd note in his voice reminded her that ladies of thetondidn’t prepare meals, leaving such menial tasks to the staff. Emma, however, had cooked all her life, and back in Chudleigh Crest, it had been a gesture of goodwill to bring sustenance to sickly neighbors.
“It’s just hotchpotch,” she said with sudden embarrassment. “Mrs. McLeod said you weren’t eating, so I thought you might like to try it. It’s quite restoring—my brother Harry always asked for it when he was ill.”
Strathaven gave her an unreadable glance. He picked up the spoon and dipped it into the simmered medley of meat and vegetables. Gingerly, he brought it to his mouth.
What was I thinking, preparing a simple country dish for a duke?
He probably had a team of French chefs producing cuisine suitable for his refined palate. She wanted to groan at her gaucheness.
It was too late. He’d sampled the spoonful.
“It’s good.” He sounded surprised. “Delicious, actually.”
Flustered by the compliment, she said, “It probably just seems so compared to the bland sickroom foods you’ve been eating. I’ve never understood why a sick person should have to eat food a healthy person wouldn’t.”
“I’ve never understood it myself,” he said.
He flashed a smile at her—a crooked, boyish one that transformed him, in a blink, from a wickedly brooding duke to a devastatingly handsome man. Her senses reeled.
He waved her to a chair at his bedside, where she sat, further astonished when he proceeded to tear off a piece of the loaf she’d baked, dipping it into the bowl. This was something any member of her family would have done, but he seemed too sophisticated, tooducal, to mop up hotchpotch with bread.
Nonetheless, he ate with seeming gusto, and her gaze wandered to the painting on the bedside wall. The dark, grotesque picture depicted a man—an ancient soldier, she would guess, from his crested helmet and gladiator-like garb—held captive in... an urn? His expression ravaged, the poor fellow pummeled his fists futilely at the walls.
Who in their right mind would want to wake up tothat?she mused.
“Can you cook anything else?” Strathaven drew her attention back to him.
She nodded. “My mama taught me. Being the eldest girl, I helped her in the kitchen as soon as I could peel a potato. After she passed, I took over preparing the family’s meals.”
“How old were you when she died?”
“Thirteen.” Were they having a... normal conversation?
“That explains it.”
“Explains what?”
