Love Language (The Aristocrat Diaries 1)

Personally, I wasn’t entirely sure there was an explanation for that.

The food we’d ended up with was literally a glorified lunchable. Gabriella could tell me it was a charcuterie board all she liked. All I saw when I looked at the platter of meats, cheese, crackers, and bread, was an adult lunchable.

She couldn’t convince me otherwise.

“There’s nothing wrong with lunchables!” she protested, smearing a Dairylea triangle of soft cheese onto a plain cracker. “I still eat those.”

I froze midway through folding a piece of ham in two. “No, you don’t.”

“I do!” She laughed, flicking her plait over her shoulder. “Sometimes, when I’m at college, I just can’t be bothered to be an adult so I buy a lunchable.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Oh, my gosh.” She put the cracker down on her plate and looked at me. “What do you think I eat for lunch? Caviar?”

“It crossed my mind.”

“I’m a British aristocrat, not a Russian oligarch’s wife.”

I shrugged. “I never pictured you eating a lunchable, that’s all. If I’m honest, I’ve never pictured you cooking at all.”

“Wow.” She slowly shook her head.

“I was wrong,” I admitted. “Clearly.”

“I’m not going to lie and say I cook every night because I don’t. We have a chef, Pierre, who comes in once or twice a week and prepares meals. It’s mostly convenient for my father who’s always busy, and Aunt Cat… Well, she isn’t allowed to cook anymore.” Her lips twitched into the ghost of a smile, and her eyes twinkled with affection as she spoke. “I don’t cook as often as I’d like simply because it’s pointless for just me, but if Alex is here, I do. Especially if Olympia is with him.”

“Is that his wife?”

“No, his daughter. She’s ten.”

“He doesn’t look old enough for a ten-year-old.”

“He’s not, not really. He made some bad choices before his father died, got someone pregnant when he was nineteen, and considered marrying her.” Gabriella paused. “He didn’t, but she died when Olympia was five.”

“That’s rough.”

“Yes, but they’ve worked it out. She’s a wonderful child, and I love spending time with her.”

“Let me guess, she likes gardening.”

“Mostly when the strawberries are ripe, and she can eat them straight off the plant. She’s part goat.”

“Impossible. They were trying to get the green ones, too.”

She peered over at me and smiled, then went back to eating. I did the same, but without the smile. I was going to have to go to bed soon—being stuck here with her was doing nothing to temper my attraction to her.

Because that was the problem.

I was incredibly attracted to Lady Gabriella Hastings. I would be a fool not to be—she was beautiful, and I had a feeling that beauty extended to the inside, too. The way her eyes warmed when she spoke about her family said everything.

But I was painfully aware of how different we were, and that was why I had to keep my distance from her. Physically and emotionally.

I knew the kind of man her father wanted her to marry.

He wasn’t me.

Not even close.

I knew she thought I was rude and grumpy, but it wasn’t the entire truth. Keeping her at arm’s length was my goal and being rude to her was the easiest way to achieve that. I wasn’t entirely sure how much longer I’d be able to do it for, especially if she kept asking for my advice in the garden, but I was going to give it my best shot.

Even more so now that I was here with her and I’d had to look after her because of her ankle. As long as she didn’t need me to help her walk anymore, I’d be all right.

“So why were you so desperate to leave earlier?” Gabriella asked, resting her foot back on the cushions and looking over at me.

“I wasn’t desperate to leave,” I lied, getting up and walking to the fire. I picked up the long poker and stoked it, giving the ashes a new lease of life as fire sparked on a bit of wood that was yet to burn. I set another log on it. “I would prefer to ride out the storm in my own home, that’s all.”

“Mm. Bet you’re glad you’re here now, though. Sounds like you’d be cold and screwed without my doomsday box.”

Doomsday box. That was one way of putting it.

I had to admit that I was quite impressed with her ability to think ahead. Perhaps I’d underestimated her.

“I might be cold, but that’s what a jumper is for.”

“Mhm.” She picked up a book from the table. “Oh, I haven’t read this yet,” she said brightly, peering over the top of it. “You can help yourself, if you’d like something to read. There’s a little bit of everything here.”

I cast my gaze around the vast library with its floor-to-ceiling shelves that only broke for windows and a few drawers and cupboards for storage. “I should imagine there is.”