Marissa tried to smile. “I think we should discuss the Crusader’s Rose and how you are going to approach the next part of your search—”
Thankfully, at that moment Morris arrived with servants bearing food. The soup was placed on the table, the wine was poured, and all too soon they were alone again. Marissa took up her spoon, wondering how she was going to eat anything when her stomach was squirming with nerves.
“How serious are you about George?”
She was so surprised she almost dropped her spoon. Opposite her, Valentine was ignoring his soup, a wineglass in his hand. He looked tense but other than that she could not read him.
She shook her head, feeling the sway of her pearl earrings. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“You know exactly what I mean, Marissa,” he retorted.
“We seem to have a great many things in common,” she said primly.
“For instance, family members who are engaged in boring botanical pursuits? Yes, I see,” he said dryly. He picked up his spoon then put it down again. “Let me be blunt, Marissa. George has never touched you as I touched you?”
“What—what a shocking question!” she exclaimed. “Hardly the question of a gentleman.”
“I think we’ve established I am no gentleman.”
“I disagree. I think you are the epitome of a gentleman.”
“Answer the question,” he growled.
“Then, no, he hasn’t.” She lifted her chin, meeting his eyes without flinching. “The only man who has ever touched me like that is you.”
He was studying her face, reading her, and whatever he saw seemed to satisfy him. “Good,” he said.
Good? Why was that good?
Marissa waited for him to speak again and make all clear to her, but it seemed that he had finished because he began to eat his soup. After a moment, so did she. The silence grew heavy, uncomfortable, and she was glad when Morris returned with the servants and more plates. She hoped he would linger and began a conversation about recipes and whether Mrs. Beaumaris used white or black pepper.
But Valentine put a stop to that.
“Morris, bring the dessert, would you, and leave it on the sideboard. We can serve ourselves.”
Morris bowed and a moment later he was back, carrying out his instructions with muted efficiency. “Is that all, my lord?”
“Yes, thank you, Morris. Give my congratulations to Mrs. Beaumaris on a splendid meal, and then take yourselves off to bed. No need to wait up.”
“Mrs. Beaumaris will be pleased to know you enjoyed her efforts, my lord. Goodnight, my lord. Goodnight, Miss Rotherhild.” Another bow and the door to the yellow salon closed with an air of finality.
“This looks delicious,” Marissa said quickly. “You have a fine cook in Mrs. Beaumaris, Lord Kent.”
He said nothing but she felt his gaze on her, considering.
“My parents are so rarely at home we find it difficult to keep good cooks—the last one complained she had nothing to do. I remember, when I was younger I longed for a normal life. To sit down at the table and be asked questions about my day rather than listen to details of the next expedition to find new varieties of my parents’ favorite plants.”
She sounded woebegone, Marissa realized, but it was too late to withdraw her words.
“Were you a lonely child, Marissa?” His voice was low and deep. Intimate. Marissa felt a shiver run over her skin as if he’d reached out and caressed her.
“I…Sometimes. But my grandmother was there. Well, sometimes she was busy with her own affairs, so I couldn’t always be sure of her undivided attention. But I remember my eleventh birthday,” she said, smiling. “She went to a great deal of effort, to make up for my tenth birthday, and arranged for a barge on the Thames. It was decorated with ribbons and flowers, and there was food and music, and Grandmamma’s Bohemian friends fussed over me and made me feel very special.”
Valentine was smiling back, but he wore a puzzled expression. “You have had a most unusual upbringing, Marissa. Perhaps that is why you are such an innocent when it comes to the male sex.”
She answered him coolly. “You are mistaken, I—”
He interrupted. “Why was your tenth birthday a disappointment?”