“No fish,” she said. “Nothing, er, that was once alive.”
“Ha,” he said, and he lifted his glass again, this time in a kind of triumphant toast. “I knew it. You are too softhearted. That’s it, isn’t it? I’ve found you out. You can’t stand to eat something that had to be killed for your degustation.”
“No,” she protested.
Althoughyes,in point of fact. Damn it. Usually when she mentioned Shelley and Pythagoras, people’s eyes went unfocused and they dropped the subject. She should have memorized that bloody pamphlet.
“I know I am right. I saw your face when I first brought up my poor friendless sister. You are an alarmingly soft touch for such a shocking reprobate.” He’d caught the eye of the serving woman now, and she made her way briskly toward them. “Eggs? Do you eat those? No innocent creature had to die for a boiled egg.”
Matilda was not quite sure what was happening. “I eat eggs.”
“Good.” Then he turned his address to the serving woman. “My wife finds a baked egg more to her taste. Can you bring her one or two?”
The serving woman looked from Christian to Matilda to the sadly congealing piece of game pie. “I think I could find her an egg, sir.”
“And pudding,” Christian went on. “My wife likes dessert. And have you any vegetables? Just plain—no roast or gravy.”
The serving woman blinked. “I might have—a potato?”
Christian frowned. The woman paled, and Matilda felt her mouth twitch. Goodness, she had almost forgotten how terrifying other people seemed to find his glower.
The serving woman gave Matilda a look of desperation. “A lovely baked potato, mum. With some fresh butter, it’ll be quite a treat, I’m certain of it.”
Matilda took pity on her. “Pudding and an egg would be fine, thank you. Perhaps we can save the potato for another day.”
The serving woman shot her a grateful look and fled for the kitchen.
Christian scowled down into his wine. “A Pythagorean diet,” he muttered. “Sheer bloody-mindedness, I call it.”
Matilda did not know quite what to think about what had just occurred. She feared—
Well. She feared she had fallen quite off the precipice and could no longer hope to pretend she did not like him.
Chapter 8
Christian spent much of the first three days of their journey enumerating the life choices that had led him to this point and regretting each one in turn.
It was, by far, the most productive thing he could think of to do with his time.
Working was out of the question. He had retrieved his spectacles and put them on to read through some reports from his estate managers—and then he had caught a glimpse of Matilda’s face.
Her mouth had fallen open. “You… wear spectacles?” she said faintly.
He glared at her through them. “Yes. To read. Because I am old.”
He had, in fact, worn spectacles to read since he had firstlearnedto read, but he did not tell her that.
She had nodded, her lips still parted, the daft woman. And then he’d felt the heat of her fixed stare as he’d tried to work. It was impossible not to feel it. He rubbed the back of his neck, stared blindly at the reports, and then yanked off his spectacles and shoved them brutally into his jacket pocket.
Matilda had let out the tiniest, breathiest sigh.
So. Working was out.
Conversation was likewise impossible. The problem, he had discovered, was that when he talked with her, he—he—
He liked her. He fancied her. He thought she was wonderful.
It was an absolute goddamned disaster.
