“This meat pie be nearly as good as yours.”
Her gaze flew back to Liam, who was munching away on a golden pastry.
“Put thatback,” she said in a hushed tone. “You can’t ’elp yourself to whate’er you like.”
“That’s what it’s ’ere for, ain’t it?” Liam took another large bite. “Besides, what would ’Is Nibs do with a ’alf-eaten pie?”
“Well, just don’t eat anything else.”
“The ’ell I won’t.” Her brother looked at her as if she’d lost her mind. “There be a bloody feast in front o’ me and no Tommy, Godfrey, or Oliver to fight me for it. But since you be me sister and the one who ’itched us this fine ride, I’ll share the goods with you if you ask nicely.”
“I don’t want—”
Fancy caught herself as Knighton returned. He took the opposite bench, the cabin seeming to shrink in his presence. It wasn’t just his size; his virile male aura seemed to fill any space he occupied. His expensive scent curled in her nostrils, causing her heart to thrum like a hummingbird’s wings.
“Are you both comfortable?” he inquired. “Do you require anything before we depart?”
His tone was neutral, no hint of sarcasm or condescension. Yet Fancy’s gaze strayed to the open picnic basket, then to Liam’s greasy fingers. Then to the crumbs clinging to the corner of her brother’s mouth.
Knighton must think we’re a pair o’ ill-bred bumpkins,she thought miserably.
She knotted her fingers in the worn folds of her skirts. “No…that is, thank you, Your Grace.”
“Actually, guv, would you ’ave anything to wash down this fine pie with?” Liam asked. “I’m feelin’ a might parched.”
She cringed at her brother’s boldness.
Knighton showed no sign of derision. He merely reached to the side of the cabin, opening a leather-covered compartment perfectly designed to look like part of the wall. He reached inside and pulled out a corked bottle. Even more marvelous was the fog of condensation clinging to the bottle: there must beicein that compartment, an unheard of luxury.
“Gor, will you take a look at that?” Liam cried. “If that ain’t the cleverest contraption I e’er saw, and I be a tinker’s son!”
“I had the carriage maker design it specifically,” Knighton said.
Removing glasses from another hidden compartment, he passed them to Liam and Fancy. He popped the cork and poured out the effervescent gold liquid.
Excitement shone in Liam’s brown eyes. “Be thatchampagne?”
“From a vineyard I own in France,” the duke replied.
“Gor, I ain’t tried champagne before,” Liam chortled.
Fancy shot her brother an annoyed look. Did he have to wave their lack of sophistication as if it were a blooming flag?
“I’ve ’ad champagne before,” she rushed to say. “At Bea’s.”
“I hope you both enjoy this vintage.” Knighton filled his own glass and raised it. “To a safe journey ahead.”
As the carriage glided off, Fancy took a tentative sip. The beverage was crisp and delightfully cold. Bubbles tickled her nose, lively flavors dancing upon her tongue.
“Do you like it?” Knighton’s gaze met hers.
She nodded. “It tastes a bit like figs and ’oney. And currant buns, maybe.”
The duke’s brows shot up. Blushing, she realized how silly she must have sounded comparing expensive champagne to an ordinary morning bun.
“I don’t taste currant buns, but it does quench a man’s thirst.” Liam drained his glass. “’Ow ’bout a topper, guv?”
As Knighton refilled her brother’s glass, he said, “You have a refined palate, Miss Sheridan.”
