She looked at his coffee table, “I am sure we can make do.”
“If we sit there, I will have to lean over far too much or sit on the floor,” he said.
Standing, he called for Hunt and directed him to find a small table somewhere to put near the east window of his study.
Five minutes later, they were seated around a small round table, hastily covered with a lace cloth, and Ariadne unveiled the meals. Cedric stared at the eggs, cold slivers of duck, and well-seasoned potatoes as if she had served him shoe leather.
“Is it not to your liking?” She asked kindly. “I am sure I can ask the cook to prepare something else. Maybe cornmeal cakes and game pies, or?—”
“No, no,” Cedric took up his utensils. “This is fine. Thank you for this.”
“It’s no problem at all,” Ariadne replied. “I would like to make this a permanent part of our daily routine; sharing either breakfast or supper when your schedule allows, that is.”
He noted her teasing smile. “You will never let that go, will you?”
“No,” she laughed while spearing a sliver of duck. “Your obsession with schedules is humorous.”
He grumbled. “You will be the death of me.”
“Do you agree on sharing meals?” She asked. “It will be a good way to get to know each other.”
“Tell me about yourself.”
With a tentative smile, she asked, “What do you wish to know?”
Cedric took a moment to savor the mix of sweet and savory on his tongue. It took all he could do not to moan at the simple pleasure, and swallowing, he wondered why he had decided to let this slip by for years.
Never again.
“Tell me about your childhood,” he said. “What were you like as a girl?”
“To be honest, I did not have much of a carefree childhood,” she said. “Mama got overwhelmed a lot, and Papa travelled for most of the month, so by the age of thirteen, I had to manage three varied siblings.
“I had to be resourceful, efficient, and competent in an array of skills. I love to cook and garden; they do go hand in hand,” she said, while sliding a cut piece of egg into her lips.
Cedric’s eyes latched onto the glimmering tines of the fork disappearing between her plump lips. His gut twisted a little with what could only be termed as jealousy.
Why do I want to be in that fork’s space?
“I probably won't be the best duchess when it comes to leaning into a life of leisure,” she said, “I want to cook and bake and plant and knit because it is what makes me happy.
“Unfortunately, I am afraid that if I do so, I will be encroaching on your staff’s territory. Mrs. Tully warned me that such things seem to upset the scale in the house.”
“I am sure Mrs. Tully will allow you to putter around the kitchen if you truly want to,” Cedric replied. “Tell me about your sisters. What is your family like?”
While nursing his coffee, he’d listened in rapt fascination as she wove a tight-knit story. She told him about her sisters, how dainty Celestine stayed firmly in the feminine arena, obsessed with silks, fashion plates, how she loved playing the pianoforte, and her beauty regimen.
“God forbid you interrupt her while she is doing her vinegar ablutions,” Cecilia laughed softly. “She fears a spot on her face more than Mother fears none of them marrying.”
He snorted, “Do you not have those qualms?”
“No,” she said. “I didn’t have the time or luxury, or frankly, the desire to do so.”
He listened to her telling him about Marigold, a consummate wallflower, and Isolde, a tomboy rebel.
Her accounts were so uniquely her; her insight into how varied her sisters' mindsets were told him she was very observant and intelligent, amusing, and often self-deprecating.
She spoke candidly of missing her father, who travelled a lot, and how self-deprecating she was about how she described herself as “overly plump”.
