‘I can’t believe this,’ she said, her voice tinged with awe. ‘Meals for the Queen, actual royalty, were prepared in this room.’
Oliver grinned, leaning against the gold-plated oven. ‘I know just how you’re feeling. My granny brought me on a tour years ago and Lady Rosalind showed us around areas like this, which the general public doesn’t usually get to see. It’s still just as fascinating to me as it was that first time.’
‘It’s all just amazing, but I feel like I shouldn’t even be here. Like I’m going to get scolded by a butler in tails.’
‘Nonsense,’ Oliver said, stepping closer to her. ‘If anything, you’re exactly the kind of person who should be here.’
Clemmie arched a brow at him. ‘Oh? And why’s that?’
‘Because you actuallycareabout the history, about the food, about what it means. You’d probably be one of the few people who’d appreciate the fact that this oven has gold plating, not because it’s expensive, but because it was made with expert craftsmanship.’
Her gaze drifted back to the gold oven. ‘I wonder what the last dish prepared here was.’
‘Maybe a feast for a visiting dignitary, or perhaps a private meal for the Royal Family after a long voyage.’
Clemmie smiled, imagining the bustle of the kitchen in its prime, chefs shouting orders, the clatter of pots and pans, and the tantalising aromas of delicacies being crafted for royalty. ‘And that’s that man again,’ she said, a photograph on the wall catching her eye. ‘Who did you say it was? The Earl of Aberford?’
‘Yes, the Earl and Chef Étienne Dupont were very good friends. They spent a lot of time together.’
‘This is like a dream,’ she said, more to herself than to Oliver.
‘Well,’ he said, stepping towards her with that familiar twinkle in his eye, ‘dreams have a way of coming true around you, don’t they?’
She turned to him, shaking her head with a laugh. ‘You’re impossible. I could have been a part of your reality but…’
‘You chose life on Puffin Island…’ He rolled his eyes playfully. ‘I’m kidding. I can see why you chose life on the island over me,’ he said teasingly.
‘Don’t try and turn this around on me,’ she protested light-heartedly, then noticed the serious look on Oliver’s face.
‘I’m not. Come on… There’s a royal feast waiting for us.’
Clemmie settled into her seat at the luxurious table dressed in fine linen, her eyes scanning the elaborate place settings of gold-plated knives and forks that shimmered under the glow of crystal chandeliers. A waiter in immaculate white gloves stood nearby, ready to serve the first course, while champagne flutes were already filled with sparkling liquid that fizzed invitingly.
Oliver sat across from her, looking maddeningly handsome in his tuxedo. He smiled as he observed her taking it all in. ‘Not bad for a Tuesday night, huh?’
Clemmie chuckled. ‘Yep, just your average weeknight dinner.’
The waiter approached, placing an artfully plated starter before them. The dish was a delicate arrangement of smoked salmon rosettes, a dollop of caviar and edible gold leaf, accompanied by a slice of freshly baked brioche. Clemmie’s stomach fluttered at the sight, not just from hunger but from the surreality of the moment.
‘I feel like I should be taking a picture, not actually eating this work of art,’ she whispered across the table, picking up her fork.
‘It’s something else, isn’t it? Imagine living like this all the time,’ Oliver said, lifting his glass of champagne.
‘And just think, that earl from the photograph gave up this life.’ They toasted, the clink of their glasses echoing softly in the grand room.
The meal was exquisite, each course more elaborate than the last. After the salmon came a rich lobster bisque, followed by a perfectly cooked filet mignon paired with truffle-infused mashed potatoes. For dessert, a tower of macarons sat atop a gilded platter, their pastel colours almost too beautiful to eat.
As the waiter retreated to give them privacy, Clemmie leaned back in her chair, a contented sigh escaping her lips. ‘I’m not sure I can move after that.’
‘We don’t have to. We can sit and listen to the string quartet and have drinks at the bar. I’ve missed this.’
Clemmie’s heart gave a tiny leap. ‘What do you mean… this? Fancy dinners on yachts?’
‘No,’ he said, his gaze locking onto hers. ‘You. Your company.’
The words hung between them and Clemmie felt a warmth spread through her, though she tried to play it cool. ‘Is that so? We were only together for a week. Did you ever think about me after we parted ways?’ she asked, fishing for information.
Oliver leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. ‘All the time,’ he admitted, his voice steady. ‘Did you?’
