Chapter Eighteen #2
“Are you . . . hungry?” Foxcourt asked into the silence.
My stomach answered for me with a pitiful rumble. I flushed, and a small smile touched his lips.
“As the lady commands, then,” he said, looking relieved to finally have something tangible to do.
I watched, amused, as he hastily assembled a cold plate, moving with practiced adeptness around the kitchen to gather what
he needed: a crumbly wedge of cheese, blueberries, and half a loaf of bread.
“How efficient of you,” I noted as he set the plate down on the worktable.
“Water?” he queried. At my nod, he went off to fetch two glasses and poured water from a covered pitcher.
Oh dear, I thought. A girl could grow dangerously accustomed to being served by a toff.
“Mrs. Silver learned the best way to keep from being woken at all hours of the night by Reddy and me rummaging around for
food was to leave it where it was easily discovered, even for two twits,” Foxcourt explained, circling around to the other
side of the worktable. “There was a time the two of us were eating more food than the rest of the household combined.”
He passed the glass of water to me, and I took it gratefully, giving a mock toast. To my delight, he returned it, then watched
as I drank half of it. That seemed to satisfy him enough to turn his attention to the plate between us, plucking a blueberry
from it.
“No wonder the two of you are taller than most knights of the rainbow,” I noted, breaking off a piece of cheese.
“Knights of the rainbow?” Foxcourt paused, then guessed, “Footmen?”
“Yes,” I said, “because of the array of colors of their livery. There you are, a new bit of cant for you.”
“Even a nib can learn,” he said.
“You still haven’t the slightest notion what that means, do you?” I asked, forgetting myself enough to lean forward and rest
my forearms against the table.
“On the contrary, thanks to the delightful introduction Theo gave me to ‘dicked in the nob,’ I now take nob to mean ‘head’ and nib to be something like ‘tail.’”
I shook my head. “Not even close, I fear.”
He looked a bit sour at that but simply tore off a chunk of the bread for me. I made a sandwich with another bit of cheese,
already feeling better. Apparently, it showed.
“Your color’s improved,” Foxcourt noted.
“I certainly feel improved,” I said, trying not to fluster under his close attention.
“Have you never thought of moving away from town to the country?” he asked, leaning his own arms on the table in a mirror
of my pose.
I made a very ungraceful face. “I don’t love something less for being imperfect. Besides, there’s twice as much animal droppings
to be found—or so I’ve heard.”
“You’ve never been?” he asked, surprised.
“I’ve never had the means or reason to,” I said. It had always simply been another advantage the Patricians had over the rest
of us. Mama had wanted to leave Linden, for the country or for another city, but marrying, and then illness, had trapped us
here.
“I’m afraid to say the air is clearer and quite endurable, even with the presence of farm animals,” he said.
“And?” I countered. “I have never shied from a challenge.”
Even if that challenge was breathing bleak, reeking air. I’d learn to hold my breath for an hour before I ever let it defeat
me.
“Yes,” he said, his eyes softening in a way I didn’t understand. “I know.”
Feeling a flutter of something unwelcome in my chest, I returned my attention to the plate between us, rolling a blueberry
beneath my finger. “Thank you for my mother’s portrait.”
Now it was his turn to be absorbed in studying the food. He shifted, and I could have sworn the tips of his ears went a touch
pink.
“Of course,” he told the cheese, a bit gruffly. “It’s yours, or soon to be, anyway.”
Ah. “Well . . . thank you regardless.”
Foxcourt nodded, drawing in a soft breath. It was a moment before he looked up and met my curious gaze. My finger stilled
against the blueberry.
“Tell me if something is the matter,” he said roughly. “I cannot help you otherwise.”
“I do not need your help,” I reminded him, surprised by how soft the words were as they escaped.
His bare hand rose toward me, crossing that distance between us. He hardly seemed conscious of it.
“Yes,” Foxcourt murmured, shocking me into stillness as his thumb, calloused and warm, gently brushed a crumb from the corner of my lips. “But you’ll have it regardless.”
Unspent breath burned in my chest, and I found myself leaning forward into that touch rather than away from him. His eyes
were still fixed on the point where his thumb rested, his other fingers curling petal soft around my jaw.
The door to the back garden creaked open, and we flew back from the worktable as quickly as if someone had tossed a lit firework
onto it.
Reddy’s eyes landed on the abandoned plate of food with unerring accuracy. “Oh, thank God. I’m famished.”
Foxcourt cleared his throat, moving to refill our water glasses. “Good evening to you as well.”
Reddy was dressed in his usual fine attire, including a topper and greatcoat, as if he was on his way somewhere more important