“I read all the Gothics,” she said, and eagerly took the bowl, popping two berries into her mouth in rapid succession.
“Slow down. You’ll get an ache in your stomach.”
“That’ll be my problem, not yours,” she replied tartly.
“Not if you cast up your accounts along this bumpy, rutted road.”
Julian had finally uncovered the mysterious narrow box. Lined up inside were six perfectly shaped tarts, all piped with fluffy toppings. They smelled wonderful, some of them sweet, some savory, with buttery toppings.
Julian spoke finally. “Would you like one? They’re your favorites, from Fortnum’s.”
She jerked her head away in silent denial.
“Oh, come on. You know you want one.”
After a few moments hesitation, she darted out one of her hands and snatched a strawberry tart.
Julian made as if to slap her hand and said, “We do have forks and napkins, you know…”
She ignored him and raised the confection to her mouth, biting into the tender, flaky crust, bright red fruit filling bursting into her mouth, tasting of comfort, and hope.
She viewed the sweet dessert as proof that Julian would always care about her. He’d said so. He’d promised nothing bad would ever happen to her. Of course he’d been dressed as a bear at the time he’d said the words, so she was uncertain if that still counted.
* * *
WILHELMINA TINDALL’S DIARY
June 24,1833
Mayfair, London
Wonder of wonders. His Grace sidled up to me today in the Greek and Roman aisle at Hatchard’s. I thought perhaps he’d greet me civilly and we’d have a rational social discourse. Lord Shropshire’s coachman awaited outside whilst slowly walking the grays up and down Piccadilly.
And what, Dear Diary, do you suppose His Magnificence had to say? A long lock of hair flopped down over his eyes whilst he attempted polite conversation which consisted of “Um, Miss Tindall, I’m so grateful to have happened upon you engaged in what, um, I know is your, ah, favorite pastime.”
Lucy joined me from the cookbook section when she heard the great looby stammering from several aisles away. Even she, who has been in awe of the man for years, gave him an annoyed look. Honestly, what good is a duke who cannot speak properly when he opens his mouth?
When he begged Lucy for a few seconds of privacy, she gave him a withering look and wandered off. The minute she departed, he stooped to my level (the dratted man is the only gentleman of my acquaintance who has to stoop) and confided, “He has two mistresses,” before fleeing like Sir Cinnamon the time he let his tail wave too close to the kitchen fire.
I was mortified and raced from Hatchard’s, motioning for Lucy to follow. I waved at the counter clerk to put all of our books on Papa’s account.
After my tearful re-counting to Lady Fitzroy tonight, she calmly explained most gentleman of thetonhave a mistress, even after they’re married. Furthermore, she insinuated I might welcome the idea once I’d given birth to an heir and a spare, plus however many children I needed to bear before that responsibility was fulfilled.
And then she posed a question. Did I think His Grace might have a mistress as well? I hesitate to put these words to ink, but the idea absolutely incensed me. I don’t care how many women he has, but the idea of his perfidy made me want to race out of the Rumsford townhouse and hunt him down like a dog.
13
JUNE 1828
MONTCLIFFE ABBEY
Julian slowly shook his head. He could not have loved a true sister more than Mina, but he worried about her future. He feared an actual rake someday would take advantage of the charming imp whose penchant for adventure knew no bounds. He wouldn’t always be there to snatch her away from danger.
He leaned across the wide divide between the seats in the Tindall carriage and carefully wiped a smear of strawberry glaze from her cheek with a napkin from the hamper. “Mina, Mina…what’s to become of you?”
At the sound of his words, her face turned so pale, he feared perhaps she really might cast up her accounts. “Are you ill? Should I knock for the coachman to stop?”
She didn’t answer at first, but reached out and grasped his forearm through the fine linen of his shirt, smearing that as well with sticky strawberry residue.
