The cook hesitated, unused to his presence, let alone his interrogation. “Just about, Your Grace.”
“And has dinner been sent to her room?”
“We were planning on sending it up with the poultice.”
Edward nodded and clasped his hands in front of him. “Very well.”
Mrs. Price looked over her shoulder at the pot boiling on the stove, then back in his direction. “Is there something else I can help you with, Your Grace?”
“Not at all.” But he didn’t move.
Edward was fairly sure she didn’t mean for him to catch her exaggerated eye roll as she turned back to her staff. With a swish of her wooden spoon, she got the kitchen back in production. As they chopped and kneaded and tidied, the maids continued to send him furtive, speculative glances. Used to such attention, Edward didn’t outwardly shift, but inside he was conscious of the stir he was causing. Downstairs gossip was the most sought-after chatter in London, simply because there was always a kernel of truth to it. What his staff would make of his interest in Fiona, he didn’t know. But he paid them well enough to keep their thoughts to themselves. Simmons hadn’t so much as batted an eye when Edward had asked them to conceal the truth about Fiona.
After a few minutes, the cook pulled the bell cord and one of the housemaids entered, stumbling over thin air as she realized Edward was in the room. Half her attention remained on him as she was handed a tray with two covered dishes and thick poultices that lay across it. Warily, she came to stand in front of him.
“I’ll take it.” He accepted the tray from the housemaid, ignoring her widening eyes and open mouth. A duke carrying a food tray might be unusual, but it was his house, and he could do what he liked.
He got more than a few odd stares from the footmen as he made his way to Fiona’s bedroom but met each one with a raised eyebrow. Their curiosity quickly shifted to their shoes or the ceiling.
Outside Fiona’s room, he set the tray onto the hall table and knocked softly. After a moment, she opened it. Her unbound hair fell in loose waves. She was wrapped from neck to ankle in a thick, serviceable robe, and from beneath the hem her stockinged feet showed. There was no reason for the sight to suck the breath from him, but it did.
“Why are you not in bed?”
“Because ye knocked on the door,” she said.
“Why is your maid not answering?”
She sighed. “Because I don’t have a maid. Honestly, Ed, I have a splitting headache; church bells are ringing in my ears and I’m nae entirely sure that I’m not aboot to vomit on your feet. Are you here for a reason other than to interrogate me about who opens my bedroom door?”
“I…yes. I am.” He picked up the tray from the table.
She blinked in surprise. “You brought me supper? Did you go downstairs? Yourself?”
The constant implication that he was doing something he shouldn’t by visiting his own kitchen was beginning to rankle. “Is that a surprise?”
She cocked her head, one hand on her hip. “When was the last time you were in the kitchens?”
Not since Mrs. Price’s birthday six months ago. He made a point of visiting senior staff personally for their birthdays, but other than that once-a-year trip, he hadn’t ventured into that room since his father had passed.
Dukes didn’t spend time in their kitchens, even if they’d practically lived there as children.
“They’re my kitchens. I can visit if I want to.”
“Of course.” She held out her hands to take the tray. Her wrists peeked out from beneath her robe, the left one still clearly swollen and turning a deep purple.
“You’re not carrying the tray, you obstinate woman.”
Sighing once again, she stepped aside and motioned for him to come in. That simple movement appeared rickety and off balance and if he’d had a free hand, he would have steadied her with it.
“Bed,” he said as he took the tray to the dressing table by the window.
She did as he’d asked, probably because she was about to collapse and not because he’d suggested it. She sat against some pillows, her head leaning back against the headboard.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Like a right dunce. I’ve never claimed to be the most graceful of women but ending up on my arse in the middle of Mayfair is a touch beyond my usual clumsiness. Thank you, by the way, for carrying me home.”
There was a softness to her voice, and the lamplight illuminated her copper hair with layers of gold. The combination lit a warmth within him, the heat unfurling in his belly.
