Once the procession was past, everyone returned inside to warm up by the fireplaces. He and Giselle found Madame Bernard sitting alone, so they went over and asked if she would want food now. When she professed to be famished, they headed off to the supper room.
“When does the dancing begin?” Giselle asked.
“Probably soon. They’ll wait until people have had a bit to eat first, but then the musicians will start up.”
“I love to dance,” she said, a hint of yearning in her voice. “Especially the waltz. I learned how to waltz in Bath.”
He stifled a groan. Obviously, she was hinting that she wanted to be asked. Generally, he felt indifferently about dancing. But aside from the fact that he didn’t know the waltz well at all, he certainly wasn’t going to dance it withher, especially not the way she looked now. The idea of holding her close in a dance that practically mimicked the act of lovemaking …
No, he mustn’t. He couldn’t bear dancinganydance with her. He already ached to seduce her—dancing with her would turn him into a slavering beast who was liable to take advantage of her. And that wouldn’t be good for either of them.
So, he changed the subject as they entered the supper room. “Will you choose some things for your mother to eat?” Heathbrook asked. “I confess I still have no clue what she likes.”
“You are safe if you remember that she adores any kind of cheese, but dislikes anything that swims. Or so she always says.”
“Not even frog legs? I thought everyone French enjoyed those.”
She eyed him askance. “Not everyone French.”
“So, shedoesn’tlike frog legs.”
Giselle tipped up her chin. “She does, actually, but—”
“You just proved my point,” he said with a laugh.
“I do not myself enjoy them,” she said with a sniff. “That is surely proof ofmypoint.”
He leaned close to whisper, “Ah, but you’re only half-French.”
“Must you remind me?” she said lightly. “It issucha curse to have even a minute amount of English blood.”
“Watch it, minx,” he murmured. “Your fiancé is rather proud of being English.”
“Myfauxfiancé,” she reminded him in a whisper as she filled two plates with food, one for her mother containing a selection of cheese-based dishes. “So, I need not trouble myself about your English blood. Tell me, sir, doyoueat frog legs?”
He turned his attention to piling shrimp and whelks upon his plate. “Um … I do, actually. I eatanythingthat swims.”
“Do not tell Maman. She will lecture you about the ill effects of eating things from water.” When he arched an eyebrow at her, she shrugged. “Maman is what is often called ‘eccentric’ by you English. She also happens to think that water has little invisible creatures in it. Ridiculous,non?”
“Mymother thought that peas caused indigestion. Yet I still eat peas.”
She narrowed her gaze on him. “Is there anything you do not eat? Because, if memory serves me correctly, you never turned down a single dish at the lodging house.”
“Madame Dubois happened to have a very good cook, if you’ll recall. I missed that chap terribly once we were at Bitche, believe me. I used to dream about his galettes.”
Occasionally, he dreamed abouther, but he figured it wouldn’t be wise to mention that.
Giselle sighed. “I myself miss his galettes. Maman’s cook is not so good with them.”
“I have a French cook, you know,” he murmured. “He makes a blueberry galette to rival even those of your cousin’s cook. Now, don’t you wish I wasn’t merely yourfauxfiancé?”
“Hardly, monsieur,” she said sweetly. “Because then I would have to endure your sly hints about Gog and Magog’s giantverges.”
His bark of laughter at her mention of penises in French gained him a few looks. He didn’t mind. For one thing, he loved having a woman appreciate his wicked sense of humor. Very few did. Besides, with so many détenus here, the more attention he drew to him and Giselle, the more likely the détenus were to gossip about their engagement. That certainly played into his plans.
“You should have had your cook make a galette for today,” Giselle said.
“Why?”