Pam Rosenthal - The Slightest Provocation

Well, then. For she still had a pretty mouth, with gracefully bowed lips, a single dimple in the right corner, and small, even white teeth. She looked well when she was eating, even something as dodgy as spaghetti. She remembered a midnight supper in Italy, with a highly amused Lord Byron and his glowering Venetian mistress.

Very quickly, she flicked her tongue over her lower lip to catch a stray bit of carrot. A sip of wine, to cut the food’s richness. A long swallow, dark perfume swirling at the back of her throat.

The sauce was splendid. She mopped up a bit more of it with a crust of fresh bread and ate it slowly.

Her belly was starting to feel full-the next few bites would be for the pure pleasure of it. Just one more mouthful now; she needed to save some room. One wouldn’t want to come through Normandy and not sample every inn’s own particular apple tart. Especially an inn that Lady Rowen had recommended.

Though this wasn’t exactly the moment to be thinking of Lady Rowen.

The serving girl had returned to see if she wanted any dessert.

Oui, s’il vous plait, mademoiselle.

With sauce Chantilly? Sweetened fresh vanilla whipped cream sauce?

Bien sur. And, um, beaucoup. Lots of it, s’il vous plait.

A bit embarrassing, to be so straightforward about one’s greediness. But not so embarrassing that she’d do without the extra sauce.

He’d put down his glass and made a quick, almost peremptory gesture-no abashed, tentative s’il vous plait for him. The girl hurried to bring him his own large slice of the tart, with its proper little dab of cream. Placing it on the table in front of him, she twisted her sharp gamine face into an expression compounded of admiration (for monsieur, at least) and impatience, it being all too clear that this wearisome pair of anglais were going to be taking their time over their tarte tatin, and that it would be far too long before she herself could quit work and get to bed-alone, hélas.

Yes, it is rather a pity, Mary thought. But that should teach you, mademoiselle, even to think such thoughts about my monsieur.

If so he could accurately be called.

The morsel of tart passed through her lips in a cloud of fluffy whipped cream and dispelled the little moment of pique. The food deserved her full attention. Or as much of her attention as she could spare from the sight of his mouth moving slowly above that dazzling high collar.

The food and wine’s taste, texture, and perfume melded perfectly, sliding past her tongue and down her throat. She paused to watch him bring his fork to his lips again; he’d moved closer to the table now, and she could see, rather than guess, that he was looking into her eyes.

She felt herself tempted to eat more and more slowly. To flirt with downcast eyelashes from behind a napkin pressed to her lips, as though from behind a painted fan in a box at the opera. And then, almost as an afterthought, to bring another bite to her mouth, sucking sweetness from the apples and raisins, sinking her teeth into buttery crust, licking up any unctuous morsel of cream that might have stuck to her lips.

At this rate, they’d be here all night.

Which would be unfair and rather cruel to the serving girl-even if she had been a bit impertinent.

She put a few sous on the table, took a candle to help guide her way back upstairs, and rose slowly from her seat.

He caught up with her at the bottom of the stairs.

“Mary…” She’d been trying to imagine what it would feel like to hear him speak her name. It was more difficult than she’d expected. As though in a dream, she turned to face him.

“… Wollstonecraft’s Letters Written During a Short Residence in Sweden, Norway, and Denmark. ”

Book in outstretched hand, he looked cordial and entirely at his ease. “Splendidly composed by an eminently reasonable creature. And an excellent choice for a lady traveling alone.”

“Yes,” she heard herself say. “Yes, I admire the author excessively. I was named for her, you know.”

He bowed slightly. “Indeed,” he said. “And are you an equally reasonable creature?”

If she were, she wouldn’t be speaking to him.

But the best means of self-defense were to take the offensive, wasn’t that so? And just as well, because she had a question of her own.

“Is it a coincidence,” she asked, “that we’re both here tonight?”

“Alas, it isn’t. I planned it when I heard you’d be traveling through here. Not the least bit coincidental… what say we call it fate instead?”

She laughed, in part with relief-surely she could manage this sort of nervous chatter. “All right. Certainly. Let’s agree that we were fated to meet here. Because if it’s fated, we’re hardly responsible for the consequences.”

He nodded. “Exactly so.”

They were silent for a few instants now, considering each other from a shorter distance than across the dining room.

“You kept your hair short,” he said. “I should have thought you’d go back to those elaborate braids and coils you were so fond of.”

“They never really suited me; this is so much easier. And I’m a bit surprised at the dandy you’ve become.” He’d also put on about a stone of muscle; the clothing he wore tonight would have overwhelmed the raw-boned young man he’d been, all sinew and nervous energy.

“The French have very clear expectations of what an English gentleman should look like. Mustn’t disappoint ’em while we’re occupying their country.”

“No, I suppose not. I’m a bit disappointed, however. I should have liked to see you in your uniform.”

“Sorry, too late. Cashed out quite suddenly.”

She supposed she should ask about his plans. Or tell him of hers. She found that she didn’t wish to have that conversation at the present moment. Nor did she wish that anything existed outside of the present moment.

“Do you think this is wise?” she asked.

But he also knew how to parry a question with one of his own. “Were we ever wise?”

She reached to take the book from him.

“I’ll bring it,” he said. “And look.” He raised his other hand. “I’ve got another bottle of the Calvados, too, that you liked so much in the sauce. You manage the candle, Mary, and lead us up the stairs.”

It seemed a very long way to her bedchamber. Long enough to convince herself that a certain giddiness was entirely to be expected, with all that food and drink in her. She wondered what Thomas would think, when she arrived at the door of her room with him at her side.

Not that it mattered. “Go to bed, Thomas,” was all she’d need to say.

But Thomas was nowhere to be seen. Nor, when she threw open the door, was Peggy waiting to help her to bed.

Her companion nodded. “I told Thomas you wouldn’t be needing either of them tonight.”

“You spoke to Thomas?”

“When I called on my mother in Paris. The day after she promised you the loan of her coach. And then again just before you came down to supper.”

She opened her mouth indignantly.

“No, don’t blame her ladyship. She had no part in it; she was angry enough at me that I hadn’t gone to see you. As for tonight, well, I worked the whole thing out with Thomas. He’s a good, loyal fellow.”

An angry pounding started up from one of the neighboring bedchambers. They shouldn’t be disturbing their fellow lodgers by talking out here in the corridor. Kit turned a dour, puritanical-looking face in the direction of the noise and put a finger to his lips.