He let out a chuckle, and coarse laughter came from the servants carrying the trunk.
Olivia stumbled against her husband’s arm, shaking with fatigue even though she’d been sitting in the carriage all afternoon. He placed his hand on the small of her back and steadied her—a gesture that, though insignificant, spoke of possessiveness.
“Mr. Smith,” the valet said, “be so good as to have supper ready as soon as possible, then Lord and Lady Devereaux will wish to retire.”
“Very good, sir. Betsy, see to it, will ye, lass?”
The maid bobbed another curtsey then disappeared.
The innkeeper glanced at Olivia then patted her arm. “We’ve a nice bit of venison pie for ye, lass…beggin’ yer pardon, Lady Dev-row. That’ll bring the color back to yer cheeks. The wife bakes the best venison pie in the county.”
“Thank you, Mr. Smith,” Olivia said, managing a smile. “That’s very kind.”
“No trouble.” He gave a gap-toothed grin, a flare of interest in his eyes. “Ye’re a pretty thing, aren’t ye? If I were ten years younger! Yer husband’s a lucky lad to—”
He broke off, his eyes widening, and mumbled an apology. Olivia glanced up to see her husband’s eyes dark with cold fury.
“I’ll see to yer carriage, Lord Dev-row, sir,” the innkeeper said. “Ah! Here’s the missus. She’ll see ye right.”
A woman almost as plump as the innkeeper appeared, wiping her hands on her apron.
“Mary, love, here’s Lord and Lady Dev-row.”
She rolled her eyes. “I can see that, Jim, ye great oaf. Do ye think I’m blind?Men!Just because they don’t notice what’s in front of their noses half the time, they think us womenfolk are equally lacking in wits.” She smiled at Olivia. “Bless me! To look at ye, a person wouldn’t think ye’d just had the happiest day of yer life. But ye must be right tired after yer journey. Come in out of the cold. Ye need a good bit o’ pie to get yer strength back.”
Olivia tried to return her smile, then, clinging to her husband’s arm, followed the woman inside.
*
The innkeeper’s claimabout his wife’s pie was not without foundation. Molded into a smooth, round shape, crimped at the edges and decorated with embellishments in the shape of a stag’s head surrounded by leaves, it was a work of art. The cook at Rosecombe, who’d taught Olivia the basics of baking—including how to perfect pastry, such that it was strong enough to maintain its shape but not so tough as to loosen the diners’ teeth—had always said that one could recognize who’d baked a pie from the decoration, which was like a signature. Olivia herself had discovered a knack for fashioning remnants of pastry into roses and grapevines.
No countess would be expected to have practiced the skills of the kitchen. But Olivia had never expected to become one. And even though he’d recognized her as his sister and brought her to live at Rosecombe, Montague had known that, for Olivia, a Society marriage with a respectable man had always been unlikely. Instead, she was risk of being preyed upon by the less respectable—fortune hunters who,with overly bright smiles, promised love and devotion but mistreated their wives as soon as the money changed hands.
At least I cannot accuse my husband of deceiving me into matrimony with overly bright smiles or promises of love.
Olivia glanced across the dining table. Her husband stabbed a piece of pie with his fork, dipped it in the sauce, then placed it in his mouth and chewed, his jaws moving up and down with vigor. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, and he lifted his wineglass. Then he paused, glass in midair, and met her gaze.
He’d caught her staring.
Her cheeks warming, Olivia lowered her gaze and resumed eating. But the next time she looked up, he was still watching her, with the same attitude, glass in hand.
She pushed her plate aside, and he glanced at her half-eaten portion then lifted his eyebrows in inquiry.
“I-I’m no longer hungry,” she said. “It was delicious—thank you for bringing me here, my lord—b-but I’ve had my fill. W-would you like to finish mine?”
He frowned, and she cursed herself.
What must he think of her? No well-bred couple would consider passing their plates about and eating each others’ leftovers.
“I-I would hate to think Mrs. Smith thought me unappreciative of her efforts,” Olivia said. “If she’s worked hard to cook supper, I wouldn’t want to appear ungrateful. Forgive me if I spoke out of turn.”
The corner of his mouth quirked up, then he deftly swapped his empty plate for her half-full one and resumed eating. Not long after he finished, the door opened to reveal the young maid who’d greeted them earlier.
“Mercy me!” she cried, taking their plates. “Mrs. Smith will be right pleased to see you’ve finished the pie. Been boiling the bones all yesterday, she has, to make the jelly. Will ye be wanting anything else or are ye eager to get to yer chambers? Ye’ll need to work off that pie!”
She gave a broad grin, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
“My lord, may I retire?” Olivia asked.
