“Did you not find it tasty?” she asked.
He handed her a fork. A challenge. “Why don’t you see for yourself?”
She reached for the utensil. Her fingers feathered against his, and even though he wore gloves, the passing touch caused his gut to clench. He jerked his hand away the same time she did. Their gazes clashed as the fork clattered to the ground between them.
“P-pardon,” she stammered. “How clumsy of me.”
As she bent over to retrieve the silverware, the sensation in his gut traveled farther south. Devil and damn, his housekeeper had a nicely rounded bottom. When she straightened, he hastily raised his gaze, but when he saw her intent, he snapped his brows together.
“You are not going to use that, are you?” he said incredulously.
She paused an instant before the fork she’d retrievedfrom the floortouched the purple goop.
“Um…” she said.
“Christ.” He braced a hand on his hip. “Were you actually trained as a housekeeper?”
“Of course, sir.” She lifted her chin. “You have seen my references.”
“Yet you find it acceptable to eat with a fork that has touched the ground?”
She drew herself up. Since she was a full foot shorter than him, she still had to tilt her head back to look him in the eye.
“As you have undoubtedly not received training in household management, your lordship,” she said with admirable poise, “you are probably unaware of the Golden Rule of Housekeeping.”
“What is this bloody rule?”
“It is taught in the finest households. Also known as the Rule of Five Seconds, it states that if an object makes contact with the floor for five seconds or less, it is perfectly acceptable to use.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You are making that up.”
“I assure you that I am not.”
Her manner was bland and reasonable. Devil take it. As much as he doubted her sincerity, he had to admire her boldness and ingenuity.
“In my household, the Rule of Five Seconds does not apply,” he said sternly. “Remember that in the future.”
“As you wish, my lord.”
Although she bowed her head, he suspected there was not a deferential bone in her body. Strangely, he liked that. Everyone else in his life seemed to be walking on eggshells around him, whereas she didn’t seem the least bit cowed. Maybe she wouldn’t be daunted by his temper. He wondered if she might be testing how far she could go with him.
Two can play at that game.
He grabbed a clean fork and handed it to her. “Don’t think you are getting off the hook.”
Shrugging, she accepted the fork and dug into the slop. Extracting a blob, she gamely shoved it into her mouth.
As she chewed, he found himself distracted by her lips. They had an appealing shape. Would they feel as soft and plush as they looked…?
She started gagging. He held out a napkin. Snatching it, she coughed into its folds.
“Well?” he inquired.
“It was dreadful,” she admitted. “The worst thing I’ve ever tasted.”
“You haven’t sampled your eggs.”
“The eggs were terrible too?” Her spectacles had slipped down, revealing a glimmer of worry in her velvety-brown eyes. “But I poached them exactly the way the recipe book advised.”
