“I call this raw toast. It’s a very special dish I invented just for you.”
Her gap-toothed grin and the remarkable laugh.“Yes. Very special.”
He poured them both coffee and sat across from her, just as he had on the stage coach.
In between bites of bread, she asked, “Why are you here?”
“It’s my house.”
She giggled, spraying crumbs. “I’m asking how you came to be in London. You’re meant to be at a house party.”
“I ran away.”
“Why?”
“Young ladies of thetonhate me.”
“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”
He nodded. “And yet it’s true.”
“I don’t hate you.”
“You’re not one of them.”
“But they’re just like me, aren’t they? Just several years younger.”
“Not at all like you.”
“Untrue!”
“What do you know about daughters of dukes and marquesses?”
She straightened up. “I know they’re perfectly nice girls, that’s all. And they don’t go around hating people.”
“What are you?”
“Pardon?”
“We agree you’re not a young lady. So what are you? And who is Mrs. Tumney and how are you related to her?”
Her jaw dropped. “You don’t know who Mrs. Tumney is?”
“No.”
“She’s your cook. She’s been your cook for months.”
“Oh.”
She whispered, “You reallyareterrible.”
He had unwittingly crawled into bed with her and held her tightly and rubbed his cockstand against her perfect arse—basically, he had mauled her while half-asleep—and it took not knowing his cook’s name for her to believe he was terrible?
“I warned you.”
“Yes, but I thought it was polite hyperbole.”
“I’m not polite. And hyperbole? Just like Christmas house parties. I detest both and partake in neither. How do you know my cook?”
