“Lucky boy,” said Stuart Somerset.
He selected a boiled egg and rolled it against the plate, making spiderweb cracks in the shell with hardly a sound. His hands, she suddenly realized, very much resembled Bertie’s—fine, long-fingered hands meant for holding engraved fountain pens and a few cards after dinner.
And tossing street thugs ten feet into the lamppost. And peeling a boiled egg with delicate swiftness. He sliced the boiled egg in two, set the halves on another plate, and dropped a pinch each of salt and pepper next to the egg halves. Then he held out the plate toward her.
She looked down and was surprised to see that she’d already eaten everything on her plate. They exchanged plates. The egg was still warm, the white firm, the yolks just barely set.
The French had five hundred ways of making eggs. But there was something in the wholesome goodness of a fresh egg respectfully boiled that held its own against the multitude of fanciful preparations. This egg was not as fresh as those from Fairleigh Park’s own henhouse. And it was boiled fifteen seconds past optimum. But still, it was a pleasure on the tongue, the yolk rich and sensual, the white so smooth she could taste the individual grains of salt on it.
She tried to prolong the pleasure, but finished in no time at all. “That was a good egg.”
“I’m glad you liked it,” said her wouldn’t-be lover, folding the handkerchief with which he’d carefully wiped his fingertips. “Have the rest for breakfast.”
With a little start she realized he was about to leave, as he’d said he would, now that she’d eaten.
“Would you hand me a slice of cake?” she said.
He looked up sharply, as if she’d requested he kiss her instead. Their gaze held a long moment, until the air around her became too taut to breathe. She began to wonder if she had indeed issued an invitation of the carnal sort. He looked away and did as she asked, bringing her two slices of cake.
“The cake is good, too,” she said, somewhat stupidly, after a bite.
“Do you like cake?”
She felt his eyes on her, his attention a palpable heat on her cheeks, as if she were standing in her kitchen, not far from a stove on full bore.
“I like everything. A full stomach is a luxury that never galls.” She bit into the moist cake again, exploring the crenellations of a dried currant with the tip of her tongue. “Thank you for the food. I was quite starved after I came back. And the thought of spending a hungry night was agony.”
“My pleasure,” he said simply.
She bowed her head. “I’m sorry that I was quite rude earlier.”
“There’s nothing wrong in putting your own well-being ahead of my sensibilities. Let’s not forget that I wanted much from you.”
Her face flamed. She stuffed her mouth with cake so she didn’t have to respond.
“It’s getting late,” he said after a minute. “I should go before the streets of London are no longer safe even for a man.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Good night, Cinderella.”
She set her plate down. “Good night. And thank you again for everything.”
His lips pulled into an expression that half resembled a smile. “Let me know when you have found your true prince.”
He crossed the scant distance that separated the table and the door, lifted his hat from where he’d left it on the coat tree, and reached for the door.
“Wait!”
He waited, his hand on the door handle. She took a napkin from the table, wiped her hands, and approached him.
“I would like to shake your hand,” she said.
She extended her hand. He turned around and glanced at it. For two full seconds he did nothing. Then he leaned forward, grabbed hold of her shoulders, and kissed her.
His kiss was nothing like his precise formality, but exactly like his burst of violence. She felt as if she’d been picked up off the ground and thrown ten feet into a lamppost. Her head spun. All the breath was knocked out of her. Her arms fluttered by her sides like a pair of confused old ladies.
Then she put her arms to use. She clutched him to her, as if she were a grasshopper and he the last day of summer, and kissed him back.
Chapter Eight