tempted to inform the woman that, as a rule, he never kidnapped or pillaged before the second course. But he kept silent and tried to look as unthreatening as possible, while she shrank in her chair and made desperate conversation with the man at her left.
Turning to his right, Cam found himself staring into Amelia Hathaway’s blue eyes. They had been seated next to each other. Pleasure unfolded inside him. Her hair shone like satin, and her eyes were bright, and her skin looked like it would taste of some dessert made with milk and sugar. The sight of her reminded him of an old-fashioned gadjo word that had amused him when he had first heard it. Toothsome. The word was used for something appetizing, conveying the pleasure of taste, but also sexual allure. He found Amelia’s naturalness a thousand times more appealing than the powdered and bejeweled sophistication of other women present.
“If you’re trying to look meek and civilized,” Amelia said, “it’s not working.”
“I assure you, I’m harmless.”
Amelia smiled at that. “No doubt it would suit you for everyone to think so.”
He relished her light, clean scent, the charming pitch of her voice. He wanted to touch the fine skin of her cheeks and throat. Instead he held still and watched as she adjusted a linen napkin over her lap.
A footman came to fill their wine glasses. Cam noticed that Amelia kept stealing glances at her siblings like a mother hen with chicks gone astray. Even her brother, seated only two places away from the head of the table, was subjected to the same relentless concern. She stiffened as she caught sight of Christopher Frost, who was seated near the far end of the table. Their gazes locked, while the ripple of a swallow chased down Amelia’s throat. She seemed mesmerized by the gadjo. It was obvious an attraction still existed between the two. And judging from Frost’s expression, he was more than willing to rekindle their acquaintance.
It required a great deal of Cam’s willpower—and he had a considerable supply—not to skewer Christopher Frost with a dining utensil. He wanted her attention. All of it.
“At the first formal supper I attended in London,” he told Amelia, “I expected to come away hungry.”
To his immediate satisfaction, Amelia turned to him, her interest refocusing. “Why?”
“Because I thought the little side plates were what the gadjos used for their main course. Which meant I wasn’t going to get much to eat.”
Amelia laughed. “You must have been relieved when the large plates were brought out.”
He shook his head. “I was too busy learning the rules of the table.”
“Such as?”
“Sit where they tell you, don’t speak of politics or bodily functions, drink soup from the side of the spoon, don’t use the nut pick as a fork, and never offer someone food from your plate.”
“The Rom share food from each other’s plates?”
He stared at her steadily. “If we were eating Gypsy-style, sitting before a fire, I would offer you the choicest bites of meat. The soft inside of the bread. The sweetest sections of fruit.”
The color heightened in her cheeks, and she reached for her wine glass. After a careful sip, she said without looking at him, “Merripen rarely talks about such things. I believe I’ve learned more from you than I have after twelve years of knowing him.”
Merripen … the taciturn chal who had accompanied her in London. There had been no mistaking the easy familiarity between the two, betraying that Merripen was more than a mere servant to her.
Before Cam could pursue the matter, however, the soup course was brought out. Footmen and underbutlers worked in harmony to present huge steaming tureens of salmon soup with lime and dill, nettle soup with cheese and caraway floats, watercress soup garnished with slivers of pheasant, and mushroom soup laced with sour cream and brandy.
After Cam chose the nettle soup and it was ladled into a shallow china bowl in front
Turning to his right, Cam found himself staring into Amelia Hathaway’s blue eyes. They had been seated next to each other. Pleasure unfolded inside him. Her hair shone like satin, and her eyes were bright, and her skin looked like it would taste of some dessert made with milk and sugar. The sight of her reminded him of an old-fashioned gadjo word that had amused him when he had first heard it. Toothsome. The word was used for something appetizing, conveying the pleasure of taste, but also sexual allure. He found Amelia’s naturalness a thousand times more appealing than the powdered and bejeweled sophistication of other women present.
“If you’re trying to look meek and civilized,” Amelia said, “it’s not working.”
“I assure you, I’m harmless.”
Amelia smiled at that. “No doubt it would suit you for everyone to think so.”
He relished her light, clean scent, the charming pitch of her voice. He wanted to touch the fine skin of her cheeks and throat. Instead he held still and watched as she adjusted a linen napkin over her lap.
A footman came to fill their wine glasses. Cam noticed that Amelia kept stealing glances at her siblings like a mother hen with chicks gone astray. Even her brother, seated only two places away from the head of the table, was subjected to the same relentless concern. She stiffened as she caught sight of Christopher Frost, who was seated near the far end of the table. Their gazes locked, while the ripple of a swallow chased down Amelia’s throat. She seemed mesmerized by the gadjo. It was obvious an attraction still existed between the two. And judging from Frost’s expression, he was more than willing to rekindle their acquaintance.
It required a great deal of Cam’s willpower—and he had a considerable supply—not to skewer Christopher Frost with a dining utensil. He wanted her attention. All of it.
“At the first formal supper I attended in London,” he told Amelia, “I expected to come away hungry.”
To his immediate satisfaction, Amelia turned to him, her interest refocusing. “Why?”
“Because I thought the little side plates were what the gadjos used for their main course. Which meant I wasn’t going to get much to eat.”
Amelia laughed. “You must have been relieved when the large plates were brought out.”
He shook his head. “I was too busy learning the rules of the table.”
“Such as?”
“Sit where they tell you, don’t speak of politics or bodily functions, drink soup from the side of the spoon, don’t use the nut pick as a fork, and never offer someone food from your plate.”
“The Rom share food from each other’s plates?”
He stared at her steadily. “If we were eating Gypsy-style, sitting before a fire, I would offer you the choicest bites of meat. The soft inside of the bread. The sweetest sections of fruit.”
The color heightened in her cheeks, and she reached for her wine glass. After a careful sip, she said without looking at him, “Merripen rarely talks about such things. I believe I’ve learned more from you than I have after twelve years of knowing him.”
Merripen … the taciturn chal who had accompanied her in London. There had been no mistaking the easy familiarity between the two, betraying that Merripen was more than a mere servant to her.
Before Cam could pursue the matter, however, the soup course was brought out. Footmen and underbutlers worked in harmony to present huge steaming tureens of salmon soup with lime and dill, nettle soup with cheese and caraway floats, watercress soup garnished with slivers of pheasant, and mushroom soup laced with sour cream and brandy.
After Cam chose the nettle soup and it was ladled into a shallow china bowl in front
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