Arabella ignored him and kept looking at the menu with interest. She had a very particular flavor she loved, but today she was not in Gunther’s to enjoy herself. She was on a mission.
“The raspberry is divine, of course. But the bergamot is why everyone is here. And the lavender is also excellent. Lemon is so refreshing on a warm day. Now, call me what you will-”
“Infuriating comes to mind,” he said through gritted teeth.
“-but that brown bread flavor is too radical for me,” she continued unfazed.
He tapped his finger on the table impatiently, and Arabella noticed in delight.
“I do not see why I need to decide on such a lovely day,” she said with a smile. “Can I have some of each flavor? Except the brown bread, of course,” she turned to him with a straight face.
“God forbid,” he said in sarcasm.
“And now something to drink. Perhaps some chocolate. Or do I want tea? What flavor, though.”
“Miss Arabella.”
“Yes?” She said, a picture of innocence.
“Order!”
“I am, Your Grace.”
She returned to the menu, her brow furrowing in exaggerated contemplation.
“Hot chocolate.”
The Duke sighed in relief.
“Oh,” she said to the waiter, “perhaps some English biscuits. And some petits-fours. And send some to my chaperone.”
“Is that all?” The Duke said.
“For now.”
Arabella all but made a little triumphant parade at seeing his face so soured. She had skipped breakfast deliberately for this.
The waiter brought the full tray after a while, the little table wobbling from the weight of the dishes. Arabella looked at the table and realized that perhaps she had gone too far, but she was committed.
Summoning her inner child and struggling to dismiss the years of training on good manners, she fell upon the sweets with immense gusto. She grabbed the spoon and made sure it chimed on the glass every time she scooped it, and her mouth opened wide. Actual smacking sounds escaped her as she devoured each bite, exterminating each flavor after the other.
“Would you like some, Your Grace?”
“I am afraid I might lose a finger,” he said calmly, drinking his dark coffee.
She enforced step two. She deployed a long, loud, ridiculous laughter that sounded more like a cackle. It echoed in the filled room like an ill-timed, outmost embarrassing assault onthe ears. She added a snort in the end for good measure. An undignified sound akin to the final breaths of a dying goose was produced. She had to practice in private all morning to achieve such a sound.
“A finger and an eardrum, as it seems,” the Dude said calmly over the rim of his coffee cup.
Arabella, irritated by his stoicism, decided to double her efforts. She picked up a petit-four with her fingers, disregarding the small fork on the side, and she opened her mouth wide, shoving the sweet in her mouth and then chewing, mouth hanging open, a cardinal sin of etiquette that would have sent her governess into an early grave.
“So, Your Grace, how many estates do you own?”
The unlady-like question, delivered with a full mouth, and the spiting of some crumbs had Arabella think that she had accomplished her mission.
“Enough that I need not ration desserts, Miss Arabella.” The Duke blinked coldly.
Arabella stopped mid-chew, but she was not to be so easily thwarted. She smiled her most polite smile and wiped her face with the back of her hand.
