“Cecilia, you must keep up your strength.”
He put the largest one I’d ever seen into the curve of my palm. Didn’t roll it in my hand, couldn’t think of the texture of fine drupelets, just the juice—the promise of the sweetness. I popped it on my tongue like it was a last supper. It exploded and the seeds, the hull, danced in my mouth. It was a sea of deliciousness.
That look on Felton’s face wasn’t unreadable. That contented thing he did with his smile—not a smirk, not a grin, but something in between that meant he was happy and plotting. “You like?” he asked.
“Cook does gather the best.”
“She does. You missed strawberry season. The berries were so good. Here’s another.”
We did this, one berry at a time, each of us drawing closer until we were again side by side. When I peeked over his shoulder, he snapped the basket closed. “Lady Gantry, are you trying to ruin my surprises?”
“I do like surprises.”
He lifted one of my favorites, Stilton cheese. “And there’s bread.”
“And marmalade from the quinces?”
“Of course, what kind of fool do you take me for?”
The crust of the roll snapped as he broke it into small manageable bites. That warm, buttery, yeasty scent filled the carriage. He put on it a small cut of the cheese, and a generous dollop of the jam. “Here. A celebration for your completed masterpiece. I love witnessing you finishing a painting.”
His voice sounded merry, but his telltale gaze held a sadness. Perhaps there should be sadness in mine too, for I withheld that piece of me from him. I purposely hid it.
One finger stroked my chin and lifted it. “I’m glad to see it now. I don’t think I would have appreciated it fully, not before.”
“I suppose you were distracted by more important things for the Department of War and the Colonies.” I put my empty hand on his for the briefest moment. “Thank you for this feast.”
Then I sank my teeth into the bread and cheese and the miracle of marmalade. Ecstasy.
“My pleasure. I have always adored how your eyes sparkle when you’re sated with treats. I love it.” His countenance changed, far from the joyful man passing berries, offering jam.
“What’s the matter, my lord? Did something happen whilst I was asleep?”
He wiped his hands on a napkin. “Nothing out of the usual. Just missed this. Miss us.”
Stretching, he returned the basket to the floor, then twirled a napkin in his hand. “You have marmalade on your mouth.”
“Where?”
“There.” Felton leaned over and I thought he’d use the cloth to wipe it up, like I did Noah. But he licked at the marmalade, then kissed me.
It was shocking, his mouth on mine. The growing pressure. The growling of my jaguarete when my fingers touched his neck.
I couldn’t understand why he’d want me, after everything. Then I didn’t care, just that he kept at it.
Memories pressed and that intangible feeling that we should be like this, made me open to him, more deeply than I had at the King’s Theatre.
His fingers slipped past my coat to the lace fichu of my sky-blue carriage gown. His hands became more insistent, molding me to his chest, scooping me onto his lap.
This was his way; with every food-filled seduction of the past, he left me helpless, helpless and panting and wanting.
Then he left.
I should stop him—his hands, these wayward feelings, but the words never formed on my tongue.
Felton caressed me to let him back into my heart and my bed. Food and this gentle, stirring passion always made me feel treasured, even loved.
But he didn’t love me, not like I needed. It was far too easy for him to leave me.
