She put her hand to his knee, and he covered her fingers.
“I make sure never to indulge. I’ll never be him. Never will Hope fret about me not coming home. You wouldn’t either.”
“You’d never do that, Daniel.”
“If you knew the shame he brought to my mother, you’d be fretful every time I left out the door. Some things are in the blood.”
Her carefree smile faded. The slight curve to her posture from her years put away from society seemed more prevalent.
“As I said, I’ll be home to you and Hope. And I’ll work hard to fill your life so that you never hunger to look back.”
Their gazes locked, sending tremors of longing and more through him, tightening like a vise about his heart. He bottled up his own caution, fearful that the wrong words, the wrong look, would make her turn. “Say yes.”
She bit her lip and kept his hand. “There’s much to consider.”
Considering wasn’t dismissal, but it wasn’t yes.
Fingers lacing with hers, he sat back. “I can be patient for now. Jemina, think on it. Today, I will show you how to pick a ripe pomegranate.”
“A pomegranate?”
“Yes. The way you gobbled up my mash, I feel honor-bound to teach you how to make your own, starting with a perfect pomegranate.”
Those pretty lips parted. “Yes, perfect.”
Mr. Anthon stopped them at busy Covent Garden. Everyone came to shop or take in all sorts of entertainment. Daniel and Jemina would blend in, and his coins would take care of vendors who stared too much. Lady Shrewsbury took him here often in her efforts to help Daniel feel more comfortable in society. At times, he felt like a feral cat learning to live indoors.
Lifting Jemina down from the carriage, he was careful with his hands on her waist, the small of her back. “Rituals.”
The serious lines and counters of her cheeks disappeared as laughter filled her face.
With her arm tucked about his, they started into the group of vendors, a large array of makeshift stands clustered in the field.
The first merchant they approached had a flat board set atop stacked stones forming a table. Upon the thick piece of pine lay three baskets of produce—apples, pears, and red grapes. No pomegranates.
Daniel guided her to the first.
The merchant eyed them with a harsh, cross look, but when Daniel pulled out his coins, the woman softened. Seems silver continued to banish judgment of his arm entwined with Jemina.
But Daniel steered her to another table. More tolerant vendors would gain his money.
“You’re used to the glances, Lord Ashbrook?”
“Yes. Either they haven’t seen such a stylishly appointed gentleman today, or they’re wondering whose bastard I am.”
She blinked at him with wild large eyes. “How can you joke about such?”
“It’s been asked, and it’s better than trying to modify my behavior to suit people I’ll never see again.”
He towed her to another stand, this one with beans the color of her eyes. “Maybe they are wondering who works for whom? The heiress and her butler. The steward and the head housekeeper.”
She tweaked his cravat, straightening the knot. “Maybe they are wondering where the heiress found such an exquisite lover.”
His mouth dropped open, and she laughed.
“I must be reminded that you take no prisoners with your jests, Mrs. St. Maur.”
Ignoring his ramping pulse, he pointed to a fruit seller. “Apples. Fine apples for a penny, my dear.”
