12. CHAPTER 12
E very dish was a seduction of her senses.
They brought out the first course: a dark and rich soup that teased her nose before she even took one spoonful.
"Turtle soup," Dalton murmured, inclining his head toward her.
The duke had forgone formality and instead of sitting her at the other end of the table, far from him, he had her seated to his right.
Margaret sat opposite her, at Dalton's left, and Paul next to Margaret.
So he was close. So close she could feel his warmth.
The vibrations of his low voice as he spoke rippled over her senses like a caress.
She dipped the spoon and brought it to her lips. Then closed her eyes and sighed as the comforting, rich flavor exploded in her mouth. When she opened them, Dalton was watching her like a hawk. He had not touched his soup.
"It's delicious," she said, then saw his gaze sharpen as she licked her lower lip.
"I'm glad you approve."
The next dish was Sole à la Normande, or so Dalton informed her.
Margaret frowned at it, as if she found suspicious or confounding the bits of fish, mushrooms, and shellfish swimming in their creamy sauce.
She anticipated the taste before she even reached for the fork, instinctively reaching for the correct utensil to pry the oyster from its shell.
It did not disappoint. The flavor of the fresh seafood, the tangy saltiness perfectly balanced by the creamy sauce. She ate every oyster on her plate .
The dishes kept coming out, although by the third, she started taking little bites instead of finishing the entire serving.
It was tempting because everything was delicious.
The spices, the aromas, the textures. They entranced her palate and caused fireworks of pleasure to go off in her head, but if she wanted to try them all, she had better pace herself.
Vivienne could never have predicted that a simple meal could stir so many emotions. Not that the veritable feast paraded out in perfect synchrony could be called simple . But she had felt more — not quite memories, but stirrings — in the past half hour than in the last seven years.
Was it possible that taste and smell were the keys to her recovery?
If that was the case, how come nothing she had smelled or tasted before had even remotely stirred her?
Maybe because she had never had these delicacies in Guernsey.
The rector was not poor. The rectory, where she had lived as a companion to his mother, was a handsome house, and she had never found any fault with the meals served there.
But they could not compare to the sophisticated dishes of a duke's table.
They had been sober, simple foods. No elaborate sauces or interesting spices.
Was this how she used to eat?
"I couldn't possibly eat more," Vivienne said with a satisfied sigh as the sixth — or was it the seventh? — course was removed from the table.
"Nor should you," Paul said. He had spoken little throughout the meal. "It's not good for the constitution."
"But now comes the best part," the duke retorted, looking at her, the corners of his eyes crinkling in amusement. "Dessert."
"Oh, I love sweets." If they were as good as every other dish she had tasted tonight, she was in for a treat.
His smile grew. "I know."
"Maybe I can eat a tiny piece of dessert," she said, responding to his smile.
"I cannot recommend this excess of rich foods," Paul said.
"Come now, Harrison," Dalton replied without taking his eyes off her. "Don't be a spoilsport. "
It was said without heat, but Paul stiffened nonetheless. "I'm merely looking out for her health. She's not used to such rich sauces and exotic spices. It might upset her digestion or overstimulate the mind."
She wanted to protest that she felt just fine. Diffuse the tension between the two men. But before she could get the words out, Dalton replied, at last taking his gaze off her to turn to Paul.
"My wife is used to such meals. Or did you not notice how she knew how to eat each dish, what fork to use for each course?"
Oh! Even she had not noticed that. It had all been instinctive.
"Some of the dishes served tonight are among her favorites," Dalton continued. "And a little stimulation of the mind might be a good thing. She has never eaten in excess and never to her detriment, so I trust her judgment in this."
"I feel fine, Paul. Really. There's no cause for concern."
"Well, I, for one, am looking forward to the dessert." Margaret, bless her, interjected with a bright grin. "I may regret it tomorrow, but I'll deal with the consequences later."
"That's the spirit," Dalton replied, returning her smile.
At that moment, the servants entered and placed a small glass bowl of something creamy, buttery, and sweet in front of her. The aroma of sherry wafted up to her nose.
"That's tipsy cake. And it used to be your favorite," Dalton said.
She had the feeling it still was. If the cake tasted as good as it looked, she would devour the entire thing. The first delicate spoonful bathed her in comfort and warmth. The feeling of well-being, of belonging, more than the mere flavor of the cake could inspire.
No, this was coming from a deeper place.
From inside her. This was not just a cake.
This had not been merely a dinner. It had been a journey for her senses.
An exploratory mission. Clever of him to realize that flavors and smells might evoke feelings and then memories faster than mere conversations.
If that was the case, then yes, stimulation of the mind was a very good thing indeed .
One thing was for certain. Her mind might not remember the details.
But her body definitely remembered. Her senses remembered.
For the first time in a long time, she felt optimistic that she might, in time, recover her memories.
Surely they could not be gone when they shaped her tastes, her senses, and even her dreams.