The basket contained hen stew with potatoes in a crock, some bread and a decent bottle of red wine. She saw the last and pawed through a drawer until she discovered a corkscrew.
They sat to the simple fare and he poured some wine. The stew tasted wonderful. He had been hungrier than he realized.
“Perhaps we should give some to your coachman.”
“He ate at the tavern while they prepared the basket. He is probably napping now.”
She ate heartily, then sat back and looked at him. A private smile turned up her lips.
“What?” he asked.
“I am noticing that even after a day in which you climbed a roof and spent hours in a rustic farmhouse, you still look like a duke. Your cravat is all but unblemished and I could cut this bread with your collar. All of this after you did for yourself in the morning. Do dukes have a dispensation from showing the effects of life?” She set her chin on her fist and propped her elbow on the table and examined him more. “Perhaps it is not your dress that does it, though. Even rumpled, you would still look like Brentworth.”
It did not sound like a compliment. “Thank you.”
“Are you insulted?”
“I can hardly be insulted about looking like myself.”
She began to respond but stilled. She looked down at her plate, then at the wineglass, then finally at him. “Aren’t you going to say something about the garden?”
Brave woman. Right to the heart of the matter, with no nonsense. “Yes. As a gentleman, I am bound to apologize, which I now do.”
“Somehow that does not sound like an apology. You hardly sound sorry.”
“That is because I am not sorry. Unless you felt importuned, in which case I am abjectly sorry. Did you?”Just how brave are you?If she said yes, he would accept that and retreat totally. He had known many women, however, and his experience said she had not minded that kiss and embrace.
She thought about her answer before giving it. “If I am honest, I was not importuned. However, considering who we are to each other, it might be best if we forgot it happened.”
“I understand. You are correct, of course.” He stood. “Now I must leave. Tomorrow, I will come for you before noon, after fetching Dr. Chalmers and sending him home. Once I have come for you, we will see your friend, then continue on to Edinburgh.”
“I intended to take the mail coach.”
“I will bring you. I will ride up with Napier.”
She stood to escort him out. “All the way to Newcastle, then back here for Dr. Chalmers, then back to Newcastle, then back here. Yesterday, I would have said you and Mr. Napier could stay here, but not only is it not fitting for you, we probably should not—that is, after what happened—but if we are to forget it—”
“I could not stay.” He ventured a small caress of her face. “The truth is, Miss MacCallum, while we agreed it would be best to forget about that kiss, I will not.”
He left then, while a primitive voice in his essence thundered,Stay, you idiot. Stay.
Chapter Fourteen
Davina carried a bowl of soup up to Louisa. Back in the kitchen, a fowl roasted for the midday meal. The apron she wore bore the stains of a morning of domestic labor, undertaken gladly because her friend had survived the crisis and greeted the dawn cool to the touch.
Brentworth had sent Dr. Chalmers back to Newcastle. He sat now in an armchair reading a book he had taken from his baggage before the carriage left. He seemed lost in it, which suited Davina. She had work to do. She also had grown more aware of him than she liked, so the retreat of his presence in any way relieved her.
She propped Louisa up, making small talk, and began feeding her the soup. Her mind dwelled on other things. That kiss had most definitely been a mistake if the duke would not forget it. It had been one even if he blotted it out of his mind. How did one remain an enemy of a man with whom you had shared an intimacy like that?
“What are you thinking about?” Louisa asked. “Something serious.”
“I am just contemplating my return to Edinburgh. I have been in London a month now, and it will be good to see old friends.” She smiled. “Not as old as you, of course.”
Louisa reached out and squeezed her hand. “I am sorry I did not write. Your letters came to me, even after I married and moved here. I thought it so kind that you paid the postage so I would not need to.”
“Why did you not reply?”
Louisa shrugged. “Once I married, there was always work to do, especially after our son was born. You wrote of such a grand life, too. I had so little to say in comparison.”
