Page 17

Still standing atop the ladder, he narrowed his eyes. “Three?”

She nodded. “I bombarded you with questions, spied on you for days, and then hinted very conspicuously for you to leave Daffley Park for an hour so I could read here. So you see, cherry tarts are the very least I could do.” She motioned to the tarts. “Why do you not take a moment and enjoy one while they’re warm?”

He watched her for a moment in silence. “I don’t believe your father would approve of my stopping work to eat a pastry.”

She narrowed her gaze. “Did my eyes deceive me when last I was here? I’m certain I saw a pastry of your own situated just there.” She pointed to where his handkerchief had rested the last time she’d been in the room—the same place his handkerchief was now located, fresh crumbs atop it.

If she didn’t know any better, she’d say the man was more obsessed than she was.

He seemed to contemplate her words before nodding. “Very well. I will gratefully accept your offer. If only because I’ve no chance of denying the fact that I have been eating on the job.”

Cherry tarts. They always did the trick.

He descended the ladder and approached where she stood at the table, rubbing his hands together as small shavings of wood drifted to the ground.

She took a step back as he retrieved the largest tart. She’d forgotten how tall he was.

“I do apologize for how few there are,” she said as he took a bite. “I’m afraid my sister pilfered one. And I may or may not be guilty of fishing out one or two for myself before I arrived here. You see, I have very little self-control when it comes to pastries.” She clenched her teeth together and sent him an awkward grin.

He gave a half-smile in return and swallowed, his throat bobbing. She’d never taken any special note to a man’s neck before. There was something intriguing, even captivating, about the angles.

“I don’t believe I would have been able to stop myself either,” he said.

So she’d been right about him. “I thought so, especially after you swarmed Lord Ryecombe’s refreshment table like a bee to a wildflower.”

He coughed, holding one of his hands to his mouth as he leaned forward, trying to catch his breath.

“Heavens, are you all right?” she asked.

He continued to cough.

“I’m terribly sorry. Was I supposed to have kept that knowledge to myself? And that I also saw you slip a handful of cakes into your satchel?”

His coughing increased.

Oh dear. She’d taken her teasing one step too far.

Eventually, Mr. Steele let out one more thorough cough then straightened, clearing his throat and averting his gaze.

“I do apologize,” she mumbled.

He shook his head. “I feared you had seen me doing such things,” he said, his voice husky from the coughing attack she’d induced. “I have no reasonable excuse for eating as much as I did. But to be clear, I did not take the cakes for myself. They were for my mother.”

A warmth flowered in her heart. “Oh, how very kind of you. I’m sure she appreciated them.”

He cleared his throat again. “Well, the cakes were more or less a handkerchief full of crumbs by the time she partook of them. She was very gracious, though she had to scoop them into her mouth.”

Marianne gave a little laugh. He glanced at her then back at his tart. “Am I allowed to continue eating, or are you to reveal something else unsavory about me first?”

She waved a hand. “Oh, no. By all means, eat.”

She tried not to stare as he took another bite. When had swallowing a cherry tart become such a mesmerizing action? Did he really need to have his cravat loosened so much? She supposed the room was a little warm.

“Do you like them?” she asked, if only to keep her eyes from where the contours of his neck disappeared into the slackened cravat.

“Very much. I’ve enjoyed much of your cook’s food and am always impressed. I also enjoy Mrs. Hill’s pastries from the village.”

Marianne clicked her tongue as he took a final bite. “Oh, you would be wise to not let Cook overhear you say that. She might scorch your food on purpose.”