“Strawberry and custard tarts are my favorite!” Caroline cheered, dabbing her lips daintily with her napkin. The sweetness and sourness lingered on her tongue, mingling with the delicious buttery flavor of the pastry.
Max sat back in his chair, swirling his small measure of port. “I know.”
“Pardon?” She stared at him in disbelief.
“You missed your wedding breakfast, so I thought it only fair that I prepared something of equal delight for tonight,” he explained. “Mrs. Whitlock and I spoke, and though we could not get everything at such short notice, we prepared a menu that we hoped you would enjoy.”
Caroline thought back through the other four courses they had enjoyed together: herby wild mushroom soup with fresh bread, partridge stuffed with apricots and drenched in blackberrysauce, roasted mackerel with lemon slices and wild garlic, venison with buttery potatoes, honeyed carrots, and salted beetroot. All of her favorites, devoured with great nostalgia. Now, she understood why.
“But… where did you get strawberries? And apricots?” She gaped at him, not knowing how to feel about the gesture.
He shrugged. “They were preserved. Was it not to your liking?”
“It was… It was delicious!” she insisted, as the footman brought in one last dish. “Wait. There is more? I do not think I could eat another bite.”
Max took possession of the last course—a small plate with apple slices fanned out in an elegant design—and placed it between them. “It is more of a gift than a true dish. You wanted the apple out of the tree, and I did not get it for you. But I did pick it, in the end, and I want you to have it.”
“What?” she gasped, her mind in turmoil.
Max was meant to be grumpy and aloof and completely unenthusiastic about having a wife. He was not supposed to offer sweet, heartening gifts. He was not supposed to smile at her with that dangerous smile of his. He was not supposed to look at her so intently that she could not breathe. He was not supposed to decorate the dining room with her favorite flowers and have the cook make all of her favorites to make amends for the wedding breakfast they never had. He was supposed to becold and distant, and his actions were supposed to align with that, not do the opposite.
“I want you to have this apple,” he repeated, “and I want you to find happiness as the Duchess of Harewood. Indeed, I do not want you to feel as if no one wants your company. Whatever I may do to help, whether it is picking apples, fetching strawberry preserves out of the cellar, or ordering cloaks, I will do it to ensure that you know that youarewelcome here. That you are not alone.”
Tears prickled in her eyes, threatening to rise to the surface. She had not realized that Max hadseenher, that he had cared enough about what she had said to try and make it better. In truth, it barely made sense, considering how much of a nuisance she had been.
She took a slice and bit into it, chewing slowly. Her eye twitched as the juice filled her mouth. “It is sour.”
“Yes, I have found that to be true of that particular tree,” he replied. “Perhaps, the cook will put it into a pie for you.”
“It would have to be a very small pie.” She worried that she sounded ungrateful, but it was merely the lump in her throat, making it hard to speak and to swallow the mouthful of fruit.
He chuckled quietly. “A pie fit for a mouse.”
“Are you calling me a mouse?”
He quirked an eyebrow. “That is the very last thing that you are, Caroline.”
Max had not expected Caroline to want to spend more time with him after dinner, but as he had risen to enjoy his evening cup of weak tea in the Reflection Room, she had followed.
“Do you think the duke who built this meant to leave it so shallow?” Caroline asked, wandering over to the reflecting pool. She crouched down, skimming her fingertips across the still surface, sending out ripples that swept all the way to the other side.
Max stood a polite distance away. “Perhaps he just liked to have clean feet. You believe he had a different purpose in mind?”
“I cannot be certain, but it would be a fine thing to have one’s own extensive baths at one’s manor. You could pretend you were a wealthy Roman, gorging on olives and good wine. With such a view of the gardens too. Intolerable in an English winter, I should imagine, unless one could find a way to keep the water warm,” she replied as if thinking out loud.
Her mind continued to surprise Max. It was curious and sharply intelligent, solving problems as they arose in her thoughts, or at least considering potential difficulties even in the leisure of imagination. And he could not say he knew of any other lady who chose to read of astronomy and botany instead of novels, but then he only had Anna as an example.
Caroline trailed her fingertips in a lazy circle. “A pump of some kind would be required, and some manner of furnace perhaps, boiling and circulating the water. No, that would be too risky,” she mumbled. “Just warming the water might be better, before it is pumped.”
“Are you planning to put designs on my desk?” he teased carefully, settling down on the very low wall that surrounded the pool. “An annotated strategy to put a great hole in this floor?”
She laughed, shifting to perch on the wall with him. “I might.”
A brief silence stretched between them, neither awkward nor truly comfortable, as Mrs. Whitlock came in with a tea tray. If she was pleasantly surprised to find the married pair sitting so close to one another in an amiable fashion, she did not show it. But shedidleave quickly and wordlessly as if she did not want to disturb the unexpected occasion.
Max poured the tea. “Milk? Lemon? Sugar? As is?”
“As is,” Caroline said, accepting the teacup. “Though I am partial to cream if there are cakes and scones to be had.”
