Chapter Thirty-Four #2
James leaned towards Tristan. “He gets this from the Duchess,” he murmured. “She once served the Duke a lesser vintage than the rest of the table at his own birthday dinner because he’d forgotten their anniversary.”
Tristan picked up the scallop ceviche when prompted by Chef Iver and ate it in one bite. It was extraordinary, bright and clean, the yuzu cutting the sweetness of the scallop. His eyes closed.
“That one,” he said. “Plate four. That’s your starter.”
Barnaby glanced at him, then tried a ceviche of his own and took his time over it before setting the fork down.
“Plate four is a contender,” he allowed. “Note that, Mrs Mercier.”
They worked through the rest of the starters methodically, Barnaby photographing each plate on his mobile before tasting it.
Tristan watched him compose each shot, angling the plate, waiting for the light off the kitchen windows, then sending it off in a message he assumed was going to Lex in Miami.
“He’ll want to see what he’s missing,” Barnaby said, when he noticed Tristan watching.
Mrs Mercier clasped her hands together as they reached the main course grouping. “Now, Lord Ashworth, regarding the poultry option. Mr Murphy’s office did request that we include a Portuguese-style preparation for consideration. We’ve sourced a very fine—”
“There will be no Portuguese chicken at my wedding, Mrs Mercier.”
Mrs Mercier’s pen hovered above her clipboard.
Barnaby pulled plate eight towards him: a roasted quail, golden-skinned and compact, set atop a neat circle of bread sauce with a scatter of thyme. He cut into the breast with one stroke, turned the fork, and ate.
“The quail is excellent, Chef Iver. We’ll proceed with that.”
Mrs Mercier made a note of his choice.
“Barnaby,” James said, in a tone of mild reproach.
Barnaby set down his fork and looked directly at James.
“Lex is in Miami, James. He is being punched by an Argentinian that he chose over me, while I am here tasting our reception dinner options and selecting table linen. I believe the decision over the poultry course falls to the partner who showed up. And the partner who showed up has chosen quail.”
“Barnaby, my love,” the Duchess interjected.
“You are going to be married for a very long time. God willing and assuming Lex survives his boxing, which I do pray for daily, you will spend decades sitting across a table from that man. And in all those years there will be a great many hills to die on.” She squeezed his arm.
“The poultry course at your wedding reception is not one of them.”
Barnaby’s jaw tightened beneath his still-healing sunburn. “He isn’t here, Mummy.”
“No, he isn’t. And he should be. I’ll tell him so myself when I see him next.
But punishing the man by ignoring his preferences for his own wedding is beneath you, Barnaby, and you know it.
” She released his arm and straightened his collar.
“There will be two poultry choices. The quail, which is lovely, and a Portuguese preparation for Lex, because that boy has eaten Nando’s every Tuesday since he was fourteen and it would break his heart to sit at his own wedding without it. ”
Barnaby said nothing. His fingers found the edge of his notepad and turned it over, then over again.
“So let’s try the Portuguese option,” James said. He caught Chef Iver’s eye. “I believe there was one prepared?”
Chef Iver produced the plate from a warming drawer beneath the island. The chicken sat in a shallow pool of piri-piri sauce, charred at the edges, glistening with oil and garlic. James pulled it towards himself, carved off a piece, and brought it to his mouth.
“Oh, that’s good. That is very, very good. Chef Iver, this is outstanding.” He cut another piece. “Tristan, you have to try this.”
James held the fork out to him without looking, the way he did at the kitchen table at Windsor when he’d made something and wanted Tristan’s verdict on it. Tristan took the bite off the fork, his fingers coming up to cover James’s as his lips closed around the tines.
Barnaby cleared his throat.
James looked up and followed Barnaby’s gaze to Chef Iver, who was watching them with his eyebrows halfway up his forehead. Mrs Mercier’s pen had stalled mid-word on her clipboard, her mouth open.
James withdrew the fork and pivoted with a smoothness that would have done credit to a career diplomat.
“Bash, you too. Come here.” He carved off a fresh piece and held it out.
Barnaby, to his credit, opened his mouth and accepted it with no hesitation, though his eyes stayed on James.
James turned next to the Duchess, who took her bite and patted James on the cheek afterwards.
“Lovely, Chef Iver,” she said. “That settles it, I think.”
Tristan busied himself with plate nine. His face was burning from the jawline up, and he did not look up from the beef Wellington. Look at anyone else in the room and the colour in his cheeks would give away everything the fork-feeding hadn’t already.
One absent-minded gesture, one piece of chicken, and two people who had no business knowing about them had watched the King of the United Kingdom feed his secret boyfriend from his own fork.
Barnaby turned his notepad to a fresh page, uncapped his pen, and addressed Mrs Mercier. “Two poultry options, please. The quail, and Chef Iver’s Portuguese chicken.” He made the note himself. “Lex will be pleased. But he’s still to receive a flat soufflé.”
The Duchess smiled and said nothing.
For the rest of the tasting Tristan stationed himself at the other end of the island and stayed there, tasting each plate that was set in front of him and offering his opinions to Mrs Mercier, well out of James’s reach.