Truly a Wife (Free Fellows League 4)

Miranda’s heart seemed to skip a beat when he smiled at her like that, when he looked at her with that look of sincerity in his dark blue eyes … “That sounded suspiciously like a compliment, Your Grace.”

“It was.”

She slowly shook her head and clucked her tongue. “And I thought you were hungry …”

He studied the expression on her face and was convinced she was about to do as she’d promised.

When would he learn that Miranda St. Germaine wasn’t like other women? She was different. And that’s what he liked about her. She was strong and straightforward and intelligent and honest and dependable. She didn’t play girlish games, didn’t pretend to be what she wasn’t, and she didn’t expect him to pretend to be what he wasn’t. He had been born male and a marquess. She had been born female and a countess. He’d inherited a dukedom. She’d inherited a marquessate. And none of that made any difference to her.

Miranda St. Germaine was one of a handful of people he knew who wasn’t intimidated or impressed by his title or his wealth. She didn’t defer to him simply because he outranked her. She looked him in the eye and spoke her mind, acting as if they were equals. Daniel had forgotten how much he liked that about her, forgotten that while her green eyes, auburn hair, and long legs had been the first thing he’d noticed about her, he’d been enchanted by the person inside the beautiful exterior. He kept forgetting that Miranda rarely made idle threats. “Ah, Miranda, have a heart …” His stomac

h rumbled, protesting its emptiness.

She arched an eyebrow at him. “I had one once,” she reminded him. “I gave it to you. You broke it.”

“I was young and foolish,” he said. “I’m older now.”

“Are you suggesting I give you another chance, Your Grace?”

“The compliment I gave you was genuine.”

She grinned, showing her perfect white teeth. “Yes, I believe it was. And since I’ve heard it said that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, you would do well to remember that so long as you are dependent upon me for care and sustenance, the way to this marchioness’s heart is through genuine adoration.”

Daniel thought for a moment. “How long do you intend to keep me dependent upon you for care and sustenance?”

Miranda shrugged her shoulders. “That depends upon how rapidly you mend, Your Grace.”

“In that event …” Daniel’s blue eyes sparkled with mirth despite his fever. “Do you prefer verbal or physical genuine adoration?”

For once, Miranda’s quick wit failed her.

Daniel pressed his advantage. “Or a combination of both?”

“Why don’t I go collect our breakfast so you can find out?” Miranda asked suggestively.

Chapter Fourteen

“A man says what he knows,

A woman says what will please.”

—Jean Jacques Rousseau, 1712–1778

Miranda was as good as her word.

She made her way down the stairs to the front steps, where she collected the basket with the fruit pies and the coffee and carried them inside the house to the kitchen. Miranda set the basket on a worktable, walked over to the butler’s pantry, and gathered everything she needed for a breakfast tray—a large tray, napkins, serviceable china and flatware, and a small china pot for the coffee—then returned to the kitchen table.

She emptied the basket, took the two plates she’d brought from the butler’s pantry, and placed an apple and a cherry pie on each one. She poured coffee from the pieman’s metal pot into a small china one, added two cups and two saucers, two spoons and two forks, and two linen napkins, then set everything on the tray. She poured a dollop of cream into one cup, added a lump of sugar from the two lumps the pieman had sold them, then carefully arranged everything on the tray and covered it with a clean linen cloth.

With the breakfast tray arranged to her satisfaction, Miranda carried it up to the stairs to Daniel.

“I expected to dine out of a vendor’s basket and pewter mugs.” Daniel rubbed his hands together in anticipation and looked up at her as Miranda set the tray across his lap and lifted the cloth.

“There were no pewter mugs in the pieman’s basket,” Miranda informed him. “Only cheap tin ones.”

“These are much nicer,” Daniel agreed, waving his hand through the air above the tray, indicating the table set with linen napkins and china, before reaching for the small pot of coffee.

“Allow me.” Miranda bent over the tray. “I cannot brew it, but I excel at pouring it from pot to cup.”