merely a smooth, impersonal politeness. It reminded her of her former attempts to be adult about the situation. So she’d play it his way—forget being bolshie, drink her tea like the man said.
It was tepid, but she got through half of it and ignored the brandy. He was sipping his as he moved around. Her eyes narrowed as she watched him. He was good in a kitchen, and she’d never known it.
She’d always been there, waiting for him to fit in a visit home between his tight work schedules. So pleased to see him, so eager for the time he could spare her—had condescended to spare her!—that she’d practically fallen over herself to make their time together as smoothly memorable as possible. After all, she’d had little else to do until she’d taken the initiative and gone back to work. He’d hated that!
The helping of grilled Cumberland sausages and tomato halves he quickly and efficiently produced was enormous enough to make her groan inwardly, and the mug of milky cocoa made her eyes go wide.
Had he secretly yearned for nursery food while she’d dished up sophisticated delicacies—potted shrimps, navarin of lamb, home-made sorbets so delicious they brought tears to the eye? All exquisitely served on the finest bone china—accompanied by superb wines, of course.
All the effort and dedicated planning that had gone into every meal she had ever produced for him, when all the time he might well have preferred a plate of sausages and a mug of cocoa!
Now she would never know. She most certainly wouldn’t ask.
The forced intimacy of the situation frayed her nerve-endings, while the heart-clenching nearness of him on the opposite side of the small table brought the sensations she’d been battling to forget for a whole year burgeoning back to life. Which didn’t help her appetite.
And she couldn’t make an attempt at light, relaxing conversation. Relaxation didn’t get a look in while he was around. And they didn’t have a single thing to say to each other that didn’t reek of contention.
Even the small sound of cutlery on earthenware platters became too much to bear. She stood up, pushing back her chair more sharply and clumsily than she’d intended.
‘Thank you.’ She meant for the food she had barely touched, the cocoa she hadn’t touched at all. ‘But I think I’ll turn in. One way or another, it’s been an extremely unpleasant day.’
She made it to the stairs before he had time to respond. She truly hadn’t meant to snap, but hadn’t been able to keep the acid out of her voice.
Her hair prickling on the back of her neck, she bounded up the staircase. She felt like a rabbit with a fox on its heels. Jacob Charles Fox by name, and foxy by nature, she thought half-hysterically as she breathlessly gained the room she’d earmarked for herself long hours ago when she’d innocently believed she’d be sharing the isolated cottage with Evie.
But he didn’t follow her, as she feared he might, to drag her down and force her to eat the food he’d cooked. Of course he didn’t.
Why the heck should he want to bother? she reminded herself tiredly as she sagged back against the door, one hand at her breast as if to still the wild beating of her heart. Secure in her room, with no sound of following footsteps or angry commands from below, she couldn’t imagine why she’d panicked.
He had done what he would have considered to be his duty. Reminded her that she had to eat, produced the food. It was up to her whether she ate it or not. He couldn’t care either way. So the absence of a lock on the door was no problem either, was it? He wouldn’t try to claim his conjugal rights.
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