Planting her hands on her hips, she said, “So you have no sense of adventure and no sense of whimsy.”
“Neither one, I’m afraid.” He peered at the impressive number of chicken sandwiches, the wedge of Stilton, the jar of pickles, and what appeared to be apple tarts wrapped in paper. “What I have is a prodigious appetite. And it looks as if Cook has packed all my favorites. I suppose that was your doing?”
She laughed. “As if Cook doesn’t know every single one of your preferences. That woman is a jewel.”
“We certainly agree on that.”
Some time later, after they’d both eaten their fill, he lay back on the blanket Clarissa had spread for them and crossed his arms beneath his head while she tidied up. It really was rather nice here. That was a surprise.
She glanced over at him, and mischief sparked in her eyes. “My, my, do I detect a smile?”
He tried to stifle it, but it was too late. “Perhaps.”
“You’re having fun, aren’t you?”
“I suppose I am.”
“I was sure you would.” Beaming her triumph, she stretched out on the blanket beside him. “I know you better than you think.”
“I doubt that. I daresay I know far more about you than you do about me.”
She turned on her side to look at him. “Really? That sounds like a challenge to me. And as I recall, I won our last challenge.”
He cocked an eyebrow at her. “Very well, a challenge, then. Same terms as before. If you win, you get another automaton. You can even dictate what type and watch me make it. But if I win, you have to wear breeches at dinner.”
“Why do men love to see a woman in breeches?”
“I’ll explain it to you when you do it.”
She sniffed. “If I do it, which is by no means certain since I plan to win this challenge. Though it would help if we had some rules.”
“How about this? We take turns asking each other questions about our own likes and dislikes, and the first one to answer wrong loses.”
Her eyes narrowed on him. “All right. Since you laid down the challenge, I’ll start. Which do I prefer—prawns or fish?”
“Prawns. Which do I prefer?”
“Neither. You don’t like to eat anything that swims.”
He scowled. “That shouldn’t count. You’ve been consulting with Cook over dinner every night. I’d be surprised if you didn’t know of my dislike of seafood.”
“Hah! You simply can’t stand losing.” She tapped her chin. “Let me see, what else can I ask . . . What sort of jewelry do I like—gold or pearls?”
“Since I’ve never seen you wear a pearl in your life, I’ll have to say gold.” When she chuckled, he said flippantly, “What sort of jewelry do I like—gold or pearls?”
“If you start wearing pearls, I shall leave you,” she said with a laugh. “And you like blue sapphires and gold. I’ve only ever seen you wear a sapphire stickpin. With gold cuff links.”
He smiled. “I ought to have realized you would notice such a thing, given your love of fashion. But here’s a hard one. What political party do I support? Tell me that, if you can.”
“You’re an ardent supporter of the Tories.” When he frowned, she said gleefully, “I’m right, aren’t I? And I’ll bet you don’t know which party I support.”
“Do you know which party you support?” He’d never once heard her mention politics.
“How many are there, again?” At his shocked look, she said, “I’m joking, you fool. Of course I know which party I support. Now tell me which it is.”
He had to think about that. But Warren was a Tory, and given her propensity to be contrary . . . “You support the Whigs.”
She poked him in the chest. “You just guessed, didn’t you?”
“I told you,” he said smugly. “I know you very well.”
“We’ll see about that.” She knit her brow in deep concentration, then brightened. “Here’s one you’ll never guess. What’s my favorite play?”
“That’s far too general a question to be fair. There’s hundreds to choose from. But just to show I’m a good sport, I’ll take a stab at it.” He pretended to be unsure. “Much Ado about Nothing?”
Her mouth fell open. “How could you possibly have known that?”
“You quoted it at dinner the first night of our marriage. And generally, if someone knows something well enough to quote it, it’s a favorite.” He leaned toward her gleefully. “What’s my favorite play?”
She scowled, recognizing the trap. “As you said, there’s hundreds.”
“Yet I knew yours. Come now, give an answer.”
She threw herself back on the blanket. “You’re a wicked man, Edwin Barlow.”
“Yes, I am. And I’m powerfully eager to see you wear breeches to dinner. What’s my favorite play, minx?”
“It has to be something dry and dull. A history play, perhaps. Richard III. No, wait, The Merchant of Venice. It has those mechanical boxes in it.”
He gave her a superior look. “Actually, it’s not Shakespeare.”
“What? Of course it’s Shakespeare. Who else is there?”
“It’s She Stoops to Conquer. Oliver Goldsmith.”