‘It’s plenty.’ She smeared marmalade on to the uppermost slice.
‘Only toast?’ He frowned. His cook had long since given up providing any kind of breakfast for him, but Miss Harper ought to be a different matter.
‘At least it’s not burnt.’
His frown deepened at the implication. ‘Any particular reason, or do I strike you as the kind of man who serves his guests burnt food?’
‘You strike me as the kind of man who might do any number of things, but apparently we’re not very popular in the kitchens. According to Mrs Gargrave your kitchen staff prepared a special meal to celebrate our wedding yesterday.’
‘And then were forced to eat it themselves?’ He rolled his eyes. ‘That’s still no reason to starve you today. Is there anything else you’d like? Eggs, bacon?’
‘No, thank you, I’ve already told Mrs Gargrave that this is sufficient. I like toast.’
‘So I see.’
He watched as she took a large bite. Despite her age, she was still wearing her hair down, just as she had the first time he’d seen her, though it looked even longer now. It looked, quite frankly, overwhelming, swamping her tiny figure and shrinking her already small face. Did she like it like that, he wondered, or had she simply never tried putting it up? Only her large features stopped her face from being totally overpowered.
Not that it wasn’t attractive, he conceded. It was really quite lustrous, thick and shining and smooth like a mirror. Even so, he preferred to look at her face. There was a smudge of marmalade at the side of her mouth and he felt a sudden powerful urge to reach over and wipe it away. No, not wipe—lick. He wanted to lick it away. He blinked a few times, distracted by such an errant thought. He oughtn’t to reach out and do anything. If he tried, he’d probably keel over. The floor was still pitching slightly. And why on earth would he want to lick her, of all women, anyway?
‘How many pieces of toast have you had?’ He forced his attention back to the subject.
‘Four, maybe five.’
‘Preparing for your walk back to Whitby?’
The muscles in her jaw tightened instantly. ‘The snow’s still too deep. I checked.’
‘Then at least I get to enjoy your company for a while longer.’
He pulled out a chair and levered himself down carefully. The atmosphere between them felt as thick as the fog in his head. He really ought to go upstairs and get cleaned up, but he wanted to clear the air first. Arthur was the very last subject he wanted to talk about, especially sober, but he needed to clear his conscience of one burden at least.
She peered at him askance for a moment and then nudged the toast rack in his direction. ‘Would you like some?’
‘No.’ He winced as the smell hit his nostrils. ‘Thank you, but I only have coffee in the mornings. When I’m awake in the mornings, that is.’
‘Just coffee?’
‘You sound like Mrs Gargrave. She finds my habits equally deplorable.’
‘Maybe she has a point.’
‘Maybe she does.’
He poured himself a steaming cup and downed the too-hot liquid in one painful draught, trying to find the words to begin.
‘About last night...’
She pushed her chair back as if she’d just remembered something important elsewhere. ‘I’d rather not discuss it.’
‘Then just listen.’ He raised a hand in appeal. ‘What I said about Arthur was unforgivable. It was an appalling accusation and I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.’
‘Yes, you did.’ She looked him straight in the eye and he sighed.
‘Yes, I did. At least, I thought I did. You see, I’ve spent the past six months thinking about what happened to Arthur, trying to blame everyone except myself. It’s far easier that way, I’ve found. I thought that if I blamed you for my banishment, then it would justify my keeping away, for abandoning him when he needed me, but the truth is, I failed him. It’s easy to blame someone you think you’ll never see and I never expected our paths to cross again, Miss Harper, not until I was told about your father’s will. When I met you again yesterday it forced me to confront some of the things I’ve been trying hard not to think about. I’m not proud of how I acted or what I said, but believe me, what happened to Arthur wasn’t your fault.’
‘Not totally, perhaps.’ She lowered herself back into her chair slowly. ‘But it was still true, what you said. If I hadn’t started that argument at the ball, then you might never have been sent away. You might have been able to help him.’
‘You didn’t start that argument, you only finished it. My father and I had been arguing for ten years. He was bound to throw me out some time, and as for Arthur, I might have had all the time in the world and still not listened to him. He was always telling me to be serious, but I thought I could go through life avoiding it. I actually managed quite well for twenty-six years.’