Into his mind flashed an outrageous and prurient, and, frankly, true, response, and if he’d said it aloud a man would have laughed. But the point would have been to confuse and horrify her, and he disliked himself for the impulse to constantly poke at her like an anemone, simply to see what she would do. Simply because she was pristine and blushed easily.
“I’m merely grateful for food well-prepared. You may have noticed that I like scones.”
Her eyes were full of questions, all of which he was prepared to bat sharply down. He did not want to see the pity, speculation, revulsion, orsympathy reflected in her eyes. He needed none of it from the likes of her. The past was the past. He was here now and he was well fed and getting hungrier by the minute.
“I am grateful if you now regularly find enough to eat.”
He gave a single, slow, forbidding nod. “What is your favorite thing to eat?”
She hesitated.
“Oranges,” she said, somewhat shyly.
She was still studying him with an uncomfortable curiosity.
“A fine choice,” he said crisply. “Has your family an orangery, Lady Worth?”
“We haven’t.”
“Why oranges? And not blancmange, or cheddar, or a turkey leg?”
She cleared her throat. “Because it’s like the sun, in the form of a fruit.” She said this almost resignedly, as if this was an embarrassing secret she’d harbored. “And that’s how it feels when you eat one, too. As if all the joy the sun takes in shining is in one slice. And I love how the peel smells when you dig your nails into it—it’s like orange, only times a thousand, with a bit of an an edge. And when you bite into it it’s taut at first and then the juice sort of explodes in your mouth and it’s...”
He realized he was frowning faintly and got control of his face. He was unsettled. More specifically, he was unsettled because he was a trifle aroused. He was at once tempted to hand all sorts of things to her to hear how she felt about them.
Was Lady Worth a secret sensualist? Onewould never have guessed. He wondered why it was something which embarrassed her.
Awkwardly, he said nothing.
“What are your interests and pursuits?” she asked politely.
“Embroidery, pianoforte, and watercolors,” he said at once.
She sighed impatiently.
“Oh,myinterests and pursuits. Mine are fighting and fu—”
She looked sobracedfor more brutishness that he felt a fresh wave of self-dislike both for himself for wanting to ruffle her, and for her for providing the inspiration to ruffle her.
The truth was, he had never parsed his life into interests and pursuits. His interest was living and his pursuit was thriving, and all of it was all of a piece.
“I actually don’t mind a good fight, now and again. The kind with fists. I like to win, and I like to make a point about crossing me. And that point is: don’t do it. But I seldom need to, see. I like a good dark ale and the foam of it on my tongue. I like to sail. Wind in my hair, sun in my eyes, spray on my face. I like to become better and better at things, everything, I try. I love to organize and command men, because I think I’m bloody good at it. I like to invest my plunder in clever ways and it thrills me to mycorewhen I make a sou or two or more on it. I like a smart wager and a hard negotiation and a good cigar and the sound a woman makes when I...”
Her expression throughout was some variationof shock, alarm, fascination, and martyred patience.
He paused. “How long will we say we’ve been married, if we’re asked?”
“We can say that it feels like forever,” she said.
His short laugh became a sigh. “One year?”
“Very well.”
An awkward pause ensued.
She cleared her throat.
“As for my interest and pursuits... I do like embroidery, watercolors, and pianoforte,” she said with great dignity. “And I’m good at them. Possibly as good as you are at...” she sighed “...fighting. I like to dance. And walking in the country. I love finding tiny errors in balance sheets and creating exquisite budgets.” She opened her mouth, as if she seemed about to say something else. Then changed her mind.