She blinked. “I do?”
“Fig, orange blossom honey, andpain aux raisins. Those were the champagne’s notes as described by the vintner himself.”
“Really?” She furrowed her brow. “What’s apan o’ rays ann?”
The stern line of his mouth twitched. “Apain aux raisinsis a pastry. The French version of the currant bun which, in my opinion, is more delectable. Then again, I prefer French cuisine to English fare.”
Intrigued, she asked, “’Ow come you know so much about the French?”
Knighton paused to pour more champagne into the emptied glass Liam held out.
“Have a care, lad,” he cautioned. “Champagne can go to the head.”
Liam gulped down the contents. “We Sheridans can ’old our spirits.”
“Suit yourself.” The duke handed him the bottle.
With champagne in one hand and a sandwich he’d ransacked from the basket in the other, Liam was as happy as a pig in mud.
“As to your question, Miss Sheridan.” Knighton returned his attention to her. “My mother was French. Her ancestors several generations back were Huguenots. Fleeing religious persecution in their native country, they ended up in London.”
“Is your given name French? I’ve ’eard plenty o’ names in my travels but never that one.”
“Yes,Severinhas French roots. It means‘serious.’” His expression was wry. “I have been told it suits me.”
It did, in some respects.
“Except around donkeys,” she said.
Surprise and a hint of amusement lightened his eyes. “Touché, Miss Sheridan.”
Pleased at his response, she sipped her beverage. “Do you speak French?”
“Oui.”
She would take that as a yes. She studied his impassive features, her head filled with questions about his unusual past. According to Bea, he’d come from the London slums, which was a strange place for a duke’s son to grow up.
“’Ow did your parents meet?” she asked.
His lashes fleetingly veiled his gaze. “That is a long story.”
The champagne must have lent her courage, for she said, “We ’ave a long road ahead o’ us.”
“The tale is tedious, and I make it a habit not to bore young ladies,” he said rather smoothly. “I would rather learn about you, Miss Sheridan.”
“Me?” She couldn’t help but snort. “My life ain’t interesting at all.”
As if in agreement, her brother let out a snore. He’d fallen asleep, his head leaning against the padded leather, a beatific smile upon his face.
“It would be interesting to me as I’ve never met a tinker’s daughter before,” Knighton said.
“You don’t ’ave to watch grass grow to know it ain’t a thrilling prospect,” she returned.
At the smile that lit his gaze, her breath lodged. She knew then and there that she could get addicted to that look on him. To the way his mouth retained its firm edge, yet faint crinkles appeared around his eyes, silver glinting in the dark grey pupils.
“You underestimate your own charms, Miss Sheridan,” he murmured.
She knew that he was just being polite. A man like him doubtlessly had London’s most beautiful ladies throwing themselves at him. Yet here he was stuck in a carriage with her, a girl with a big purplish bump on her head and a brother whose snoring could wake the dead.
