There was a low exchange that he couldn’t catch and then the curtains parted and Maddy stood there with a tray. It pulled the fabric of her dress and apron tight over her breasts.
They were, he saw, aroused still, as he was.
Under his steady regard, her cheeks slowly warmed to a soft wild-rose blush, but her chin was held high. She met his gaze with a firm, direct look and said quietly, “Please do not flirt with me. I cannot afford . . . dalliance when I have the children to think of.”
She wasn’t asking for his cooperation, she was stating her terms: step out of line and she’d banish him to the vicarage.
He nodded and with an effort dragged his gaze away. There was also, he suspected, an unspoken admission that she was tempted. A gentleman would respect that. A rake would not. He wondered which he would prove to be.
The tray held a bowl of thick, savory stew sitting on a bed of mashed potato. A waft of fragrant steam rose from it. He willed his stomach not to rumble.
“Jane tells me your name is Mr. Rider. Mr. Robert Rider?” Her brows turned it into a question.
“I haven’t remembered anything. It’s just a name the children and I agreed on,” he said, struggling into a sitting position. It was easier than before. His head only swirled a little, and once he was still again, the nausea vanished and hunger took its place.
“Miss Lucy was worried that I didn’t have a name, so she suggested Rider since I’d ‘rided’ by.”
She set the tray down next to him on the bed and pushed a pillow behind him. “And Robert?”
He shrugged. “We picked it—we picked both names—to go with the R on my handkerchief.”
“Wedid, did we?” She gave him a rueful look. “I’m sorry, I did tell them not to disturb you.”
“Oh, but they were very careful not todisturbme,” he explained with a wry smile. “They justtalkedto me.Veryquietly.”
Her lips twitched. “That would be John, a born lawyer, able to wiggle his way around any rule. My father was just the same. I hope you like rabbit stew—and don’t worry, it’s quite legal. Sir Jasper gave the boys permission to—” She broke off, then added as if to herself, “I suppose that’s also changed.” She picked up the spoon.
“I can feed myself,” he said firmly. “A spoon is not as dangerous as a razor, and this is not as runny as soup. Besides, I feel much better now.” He added deliberately, “Since I shaved.”
She gave him a sharp look.
He smiled innocently back.
The wild-rose blush deepened and she left him to it. The stew was simple but delicious. He ate slowly. Outside the curtains, he could hear them all eating and clattering and talking over the day’s events. The children took it in turns to tell their tales of the day’s events, and there was laughter and even a little friendly teasing. It was like no family dinner he’d ever experienced.
When he was a boy, he and Marcus took most of their meals in the nursery, supervised over the years by a series of severely starched individuals who all went by the name of Nanny, a different one each year.
Sooner or later Mama always found fault with the current Nanny, and a new one took her place, as strict and humorless as the last.
Mama did not like competition for her boys’ affection.
Nursery meals were quiet affairs, attention being paid mostly to table manners. Talking was not allowed.
Even worse were the rare occasions when either or both boys were summoned to the family dinner table, there to have their table manners inspected while being grilled by their father. Unnerving affairs they were, mostly silent, punctuated by a question or criticism shot at them from the head of the table.
But here, outside this curtain, he could hear her asking each child about their day, and there was enthusiastic retelling of stories and contradictions and laughter. Laughter at the dinner table! Papa would have been—
He froze. With a clatter his spoon fell from nerveless fingers.Papa? Mama? Marcus?
His memory was coming back.
“Are you all right, Mr. Rider?” she called.
“Yes, thank you, just a little clumsy,” he managed to respond.
He remembered . . . what? He closed his eyes and tried to think, tried to remember. Who was he? What was his name?
But the Swiss cheese holes in his mind remained. It was all there, he knew, dangling tantalizingly just out of reach, like something glimpsed in passing from the corner of your eye that disappeared the moment you turned to look directly at it.
