Chapter Fourteen
Ralston was working in his study. He’d left instructions not to be disturbed by his staff.
His speech for the second reading of his bill needed precision.
Every sentence bore weight. He must parry Lord Weber’s inevitable objections, particularly those concerning the costs to mill owners should child labor be limited or curtailed.
Besides the economic arguments, he needed to frame the inescapable inhumanity of toiling child labor and their responsibility to end it.
His blotter had splotches of black ink where he’d pressed too hard as he scribbled his notes.
This was what he did best, what he enjoyed, but lately, his concerns that the bill would fail were growing.
Lord Weber was a formidable opponent and with the support of factory owners, he had the means to garner even more support.
To make matters worse, his mind had wandered too easily lately.
His pen hovered above the foolscap when a knock on the study door broke the silence.
‘Who is it?’
‘It’s me, my lord. Nora.’
His wife.
He sat back slightly, his heart hammering at the sound of her voice.
He’d been keeping his distance over the past couple days, especially the nights.
He’d been focused on his work and knew she must be focused on hers.
Spending time with her at the circulating library had made it worse.
Memories of her initiating that kiss in the reading room haunted his waking moments and sleepless nights.
He acknowledged his avoidance of his pretty wife was due to his growing desire for her.
To make matters worse, he genuinely liked her.
She was easy to speak with, and her sharp mind matched his own.
It was a danger he hadn’t anticipated, and it made focus impossible.
‘Enter.’
The door opened and she stepped inside with the soft rustle of silk skirts.
Her dress was yellow, the colour of the wildflowers that dotted his country estate.
Most auburn-haired women would look sallow in the shade, but Nora glowed like a breath of sunshine.
Her olive-toned skin, inherited from her Middle Eastern father, was warm and striking with her green eyes.
His heart pounded, and he clutched the pen harder than necessary as he met her gaze.
‘I know you’re working,’ she said softly.
‘Yes.’ The springs of his chair creaked as he leaned forward, and he folded his hands before him. ‘Is there something important?’
She blushed a charming pink. It climbed down her neck, and he imagined how far it went.
Did it reach the swell of her breasts beneath her bodice?
His gaze threatened to stray. He anchored it to her eyes.
He needed to stop thinking of her in a sexual nature.
It was good he was sitting, or she might realize how much she affected him.
‘The house is not on fire if that’s what you mean.’ Her voice was lighter.
He chuckled. ‘Good to know.’
‘Will you go to a tavern with me?’ she asked.
The request was a surprise. ‘A tavern?’
‘Yes, to share a meal.’
‘Do you not like Cook?’
The flush deepened. Her green eyes, flecked with amber, darted away before returning to his. ‘Cook is quite competent. The tavern I have in mind is owned by my father’s friend. I had written to him of our engagement and wedding.’
‘You want to visit this place?’
‘Well…yes. In the back of the tavern is a private dining room where they serve Middle Eastern food. Many of the dishes are from Aleppo and what we prepared in our home. I want to take you there and share a meal.’
He wondered if she would always surprise him. ‘Tonight?’
‘Yes, if you can spare the time. I enjoyed our outing at Hookham’s and I thought of arranging something myself. I also thought it might be a way to ease your tension from your work.’
He studied her for a moment. He was surprised at her offer and appreciative that she’d thought of him.
She didn’t mention their heated kiss at the bookstore.
Her hands were folded before her, and her fingers tangled in the fabric of her skirts.
He could see her swiftly beating pulse in her neck. She was nervous.
He set down his pen. ‘I do need time away from my work. Shall we go, then?’
Less than an hour later, they were seated in his crested coach travelling across London.
Soon the coach stopped before the Cock and Bull Tavern.
The old wooden sign creaked on its hinges in the slight breeze.
Ralston hopped out and, not waiting for the driver, he lowered the step and helped Nora alight.
‘I’m curious to see this fine establishment,’ he said.
She smiled then, and his gut tightened like a fist. ‘The food is divine.’
He was aware of the sway of her hips as she walked towards the tavern door. Once inside, his attention turned to the interior. The place appeared like any other tavern. Men in patched jackets and worn boots sat at tables drinking from tankards of ale or cheap gin.
A barmaid carrying a tray laden with tankards stopped when she spotted them. ‘Is that you, Nora?’ she asked.
‘Hello, Niari,’ Nora addressed the barmaid with a wide smile. ‘Is Berj here?’
The barmaid disappeared behind the counter and shouted out a name. Moments later, a short bald man with a belly waddled forth. ‘Nora! So good to see you again.’ He hugged her then proceeded to kiss each of her cheeks before turning to Ralston. ‘Is this the Englishman you married?’
‘It is,’ Nora said. ‘May I introduce the Earl of Ralston.’
‘A lord?’
She turned to Ralston. ‘This is Berj Gregorian. The owner of this fine establishment and my father’s friend.’
He was aware of Nora watching him. Clearly, she was nervous about how he would react to a family friend. She needn’t be. Ralston offered his hand. ‘Thank you for having us.’
Berj shook the Earl’s hand without preamble. ‘Come along then. There is a feast for you both.’
They passed through swinging doors into a private room where a small dining table was waiting.
A single oil lamp cast a soft glow on the table and a vase of fresh flowers.
Ralston stepped behind her to pull out a chair, his hand brushing the small of her back as she sat.
His fingers itched with the need to caress the smooth skin at her nape. He took his seat across from her.
‘Are we the only ones here?’ he asked.
Her green eyes were bright. ‘Yes, Berj assured me we would have the room to ourselves. I’m eager for you to try the food.’
It was the second time she’d mentioned it. Something in the way she spoke—soft and expectant—made him suspect it was more than food she was offering.
A server entered and placed a small plate of what looked like two tightly wrapped cigars before them. Ralston leaned in, catching the unfamiliar scent of the dish.
‘They are grape leaves,’ she said, as she watched him closely.
‘They serve English fare in the tavern, but here, in the private room, they serve Middle Eastern cuisine. Food is important in my culture, and I want to share it with you. These grape leaves are stuffed with meat, rice and spices and served warm. The dish is called sarma. Don’t be shy and eat with your fingers.
’ She picked up one, brought it to her lips and bit into it, the gesture oddly sensual.
He couldn’t help but follow the movement of her mouth as she slowly chewed, seeming to savor each bite.
He selected one and took a bite himself. The tartness of the grape leaves combined with warm meat and rice was surprisingly delicious. He eyed the dish, wishing there were more than two.
‘What do you think?’ she asked, a hint of nervousness underlying her tone.
‘I like it. Is there more?’
She released a husky laugh. ‘There is much more, but I want you to sample different dishes. Like I said, food is important, and I have many memories of my father’s aunties and friends visiting and sitting around the table in our home eating while listening to their stories.’
‘Your parents came from different words. They must have been a love match.’
She released a sigh. ‘Yes, they were. My mother was happier when my father was alive. They had to convince both their families to marry, but by the time my sisters were born, our families had grown amicable. It was difficult growing up straddling both words, but as I’ve gotten older, I would not trade it for anything. ’
He thought of his own childhood. His parents had not been a love match.
They had not been overly affectionate towards each other or towards him and they’d died after he’d graduated Oxford.
He’d known his mother loved him, but she was busy with her social agenda.
When he was young, he’d stay with his governess during balls they hosted, and when he was older, he’d been required to attend them.
It was a typical aristocratic childhood, different than Nora’s.
The next dish appeared. What looked like a paté served with flat unleavened bread.
‘This is hummus, a staple in the Mediterranean and Middle East, and is made of ground chickpeas with tahini, garlic and lemon. The pita bread is hot from the oven.’ She tore a piece of the soft bread, dipped it in the hummus and held it out to him without a word.
He accepted it from her hand, brushing her fingers with his as he took the coated bread into his mouth. It was like nothing he’d eaten before. Creamy and full of flavour, he wanted to pick up the bowl and eat it with a spoon. ‘It’s unique and I want more.’
Her widened eyes flicked to him, as though unsure if he meant the dish or something else. His heart thundered at an unnatural pace.
The door opened once again. Skewers of roast lamb and chicken she called shish kebab were served on a bed of rice pilaf followed by a savory stew of lamb with honey and almonds. They ate slowly, intimately; the cuisine was unlike anything he’d tasted.