was polished ebony threaded with silver, his eyes bright. The crease on his thin cheek deepened to a dimple. “What’s for supper, my lady?”
Oh, Lord. She had been ignoring her rumbling stomach, hoping it would be satisfied with sweet tea. “You should have eaten at the Silver Pony.”
“You mean to say I’ve missed my lunch and now you are depriving me of dinner? That’s too bad of you, Lady Anne.”
Lady Anne. Much better than Lady Imaculata. Had he somehow guessed her rank? Once she disappeared, she’d conceal her true identity. Being the Earl of Egremont’s daughter was not all that it was cracked up to be.
“How did you care for yourself when Cecily died?”
“I drank, Annie. Since by the terms of our agreement I cannot resort to that diet, I’ll need something in its place. A nip of cheese. A cracker. Something.”
Anne was hungry, too, but stubborn. And now that she was more fiancée than housekeeper, Major Ripton-Jones could fend for himself.
“Why don’t you toast us some bread and cheese?”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Us?”
“You’ve said you will help me. Until I can review Mrs. Smith’s book, I’m rather useless in the kitchen. You’ve said so yourself.”
“Hoisted on my own petard. Pour me a cup of tea so I can find the strength to feed us.”
“You do know how to cook a little, don’t you?”
“I was in the army for fifteen years. I’ve skinned a rabbit or two in my time and cooked it over a campfire in the rain. Of course, that was when I had two hands. Is there any bread left from breakfast?”
Breakfast seemed like years ago. The day had been full of life-altering events—proposals, pledges.
Kisses.
“I believe so. I can do the slicing.”
“Thank you. That would be helpful. I can’t tell you how often my food has flown off the table in my attempts to wield a knife.”
He didn’t sound sorry for himself, just resigned. It might even be fun to work alongside him now that he was no longer Mr. Doom.
She went into the larder and surveyed the shelves. There wasn’t much left of the loaf—she’d either have to go back to the village or find a bread recipe.
No. Tomorrow was her day off. She intended to celebrate the new year immersed in a tub. Just the thought of scalding hot water made her yearn to her smelly toes. She’d once bathed every day, sometimes twice. Someone else had hauled the water up from the kitchen, though. Fleets of “someone elses.” Her maid Helen and several others who had catered to her every whim. Tomorrow she’d be doing the hauling. It wouldn’t be so many steps from the stove to her little room. At least she wasn’t tucked away in an attic dormer like her London servants. Anne hoped Helen had not been turned off by her father—the girl truly was ignorant of helping her run away. But she had turned a blind eye to all the adventures Anne had had, staying home when she should have accompanied her mistress. Most recently, Helen hadn’t wanted to stand on the street in the freezing cold roasting chestnuts and spying, and who could blame her?
Anne gathered up the bread and cheese and returned to the kitchen. Gareth looked up from an empty saucepan and smiled. “You may be my sous-chef. I’ll need the cheese crumbled. And a little flour and mustard powder and pepper. Fetch some ale, too.”
Anne bit her tongue. Was it wrong to remind him of his promise?
He noticed her hesitation. “It’s not to drink, madam. I’m making you a great local delicacy, Welsh rabbit, and don’t worry, no skinning of rabbits will be necessary. We Welsh are fond of our cheese. Cecily made her own and I expect there’s enough to last us through the winter, so we won’t go hungry.”
There were indeed several rounds of cheese stored in the pantry, as well as mysterious jars and crocks of foodstuffs that Anne was too afraid to open. She hefted the ale jug from its cool corner and brought it to Gareth. He splashed some into the pan, then mixed up lumps of
Oh, Lord. She had been ignoring her rumbling stomach, hoping it would be satisfied with sweet tea. “You should have eaten at the Silver Pony.”
“You mean to say I’ve missed my lunch and now you are depriving me of dinner? That’s too bad of you, Lady Anne.”
Lady Anne. Much better than Lady Imaculata. Had he somehow guessed her rank? Once she disappeared, she’d conceal her true identity. Being the Earl of Egremont’s daughter was not all that it was cracked up to be.
“How did you care for yourself when Cecily died?”
“I drank, Annie. Since by the terms of our agreement I cannot resort to that diet, I’ll need something in its place. A nip of cheese. A cracker. Something.”
Anne was hungry, too, but stubborn. And now that she was more fiancée than housekeeper, Major Ripton-Jones could fend for himself.
“Why don’t you toast us some bread and cheese?”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Us?”
“You’ve said you will help me. Until I can review Mrs. Smith’s book, I’m rather useless in the kitchen. You’ve said so yourself.”
“Hoisted on my own petard. Pour me a cup of tea so I can find the strength to feed us.”
“You do know how to cook a little, don’t you?”
“I was in the army for fifteen years. I’ve skinned a rabbit or two in my time and cooked it over a campfire in the rain. Of course, that was when I had two hands. Is there any bread left from breakfast?”
Breakfast seemed like years ago. The day had been full of life-altering events—proposals, pledges.
Kisses.
“I believe so. I can do the slicing.”
“Thank you. That would be helpful. I can’t tell you how often my food has flown off the table in my attempts to wield a knife.”
He didn’t sound sorry for himself, just resigned. It might even be fun to work alongside him now that he was no longer Mr. Doom.
She went into the larder and surveyed the shelves. There wasn’t much left of the loaf—she’d either have to go back to the village or find a bread recipe.
No. Tomorrow was her day off. She intended to celebrate the new year immersed in a tub. Just the thought of scalding hot water made her yearn to her smelly toes. She’d once bathed every day, sometimes twice. Someone else had hauled the water up from the kitchen, though. Fleets of “someone elses.” Her maid Helen and several others who had catered to her every whim. Tomorrow she’d be doing the hauling. It wouldn’t be so many steps from the stove to her little room. At least she wasn’t tucked away in an attic dormer like her London servants. Anne hoped Helen had not been turned off by her father—the girl truly was ignorant of helping her run away. But she had turned a blind eye to all the adventures Anne had had, staying home when she should have accompanied her mistress. Most recently, Helen hadn’t wanted to stand on the street in the freezing cold roasting chestnuts and spying, and who could blame her?
Anne gathered up the bread and cheese and returned to the kitchen. Gareth looked up from an empty saucepan and smiled. “You may be my sous-chef. I’ll need the cheese crumbled. And a little flour and mustard powder and pepper. Fetch some ale, too.”
Anne bit her tongue. Was it wrong to remind him of his promise?
He noticed her hesitation. “It’s not to drink, madam. I’m making you a great local delicacy, Welsh rabbit, and don’t worry, no skinning of rabbits will be necessary. We Welsh are fond of our cheese. Cecily made her own and I expect there’s enough to last us through the winter, so we won’t go hungry.”
There were indeed several rounds of cheese stored in the pantry, as well as mysterious jars and crocks of foodstuffs that Anne was too afraid to open. She hefted the ale jug from its cool corner and brought it to Gareth. He splashed some into the pan, then mixed up lumps of
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