Elspeth nodded, her gaze fixed on the passing shops on Fleet Street. “As ye wish, Yer Grace.”
Elspeth followed Hugo through the narrow doorway into the Oxford Street establishment, her eyes widening at the warm glow that spilled out from polished brass sconces and the soft flicker of candles on each table. The murmur of conversation and the scent of roasted meats, fresh bread, and pipe smoke enveloped her. She inhaled deeply, savoring the bustle, the subtle elegance, and the novelty of it all.
Hugo guided her to a quiet corner, away from the main thoroughfare. The table was tucked between tall, high-backed chairs, giving them a measure of privacy.
Elspeth’s heart thudded with a strange thrill, the same delight she had felt in the bookshop, though multiplied by the richness of the atmosphere. She had never been escorted to such a place by anyone, least of all her late husband.
“It is lively,” she murmured, her accent thickening as she leaned slightly forward, straining to hear herself over the hum of conversation. “Are Parisian tables like this?”
“Not quite,” Hugo replied, his gaze sweeping the room with an air of quiet command. “But do not fret. None here pay much heed to others, especially a corner like ours. We may speak freely.”
The waiter appeared, brisk and unobtrusive, presenting the menu to Hugo first.
“I will have oysters for the lady to start, followed by the mutton. As for myself, escargots, then the large chop,” Hugo instructed, his tone measured and authoritative.
“Excellent selections, sir,” the waiter said with a respectful bow before inquiring about wine.
“A bottle of claret,” Hugo added.
The waiter nodded and soon returned, pouring Hugo a taste first, then filling Elspeth’s goblet with careful precision.
Elspeth took a tentative sip, noting the wine’s deep, earthy richness. She allowed herself a small smile, enjoying the comfort of being led and cared for.
Across the table, Hugo perused his first course with focused attention, cutting his chop with precise, deliberate movements.She watched, fascinated, her pulse quickening not from hunger but from the sheer presence of him.
“It is… delightful,” she murmured, leaning slightly closer. “I have never dined in such a place.”
Hugo’s gaze lifted, meeting hers briefly over the rim of his goblet. “I am pleased you enjoy yourself, my lady.” His lips quirked in the faintest smile. “The company must contribute, I daresay.”
“Aye,” she agreed softly, a blush creeping to her cheeks. “A lass could do far worse than to dine thus.”
Her voice carried the lilt of her Highlands tongue, and Hugo’s eyes softened at the music of it. “Your accent suits you. When you speak, it is as though a song rises from your throat with each word.”
Elspeth’s heart stuttered. “Do ye truly think so?” she asked, meeting his gaze.
“You know I do,” he replied, low and certain, and then returned to his meal with the air of a man accustomed to command.
“And what of you, Yer Grace? Is there not a song in yer throat as well?”
“I think if there was a song in my soul, Hell itself would have frozen over by now,” he said as he drowned the last of his glass, before motioning to the waiter.
The waiter came and cleared the table with the same quiet efficiency, and a comfortable silence settled over them. Not awkward, not forced, but intimate, like a shared secret in a bustling world.
“Areyeenjoyin yerself, Yer Grace?” she asked softly as the waiter brought the next set of dishes.
“The company is pleasant enough,” he said drily as he looked at her, his lips twitching as he took another sip of wine. “Let us see what the chef has in store with this course.”
Elspeth savored each bite of her roast mutton, accompanied by button mushrooms, tender potatoes, and buttered carrots. She looked at Hugo, who cut at his oversized chop with the precision of a surgeon. He nodded approvingly with each bite, swiping it in the jus that sat at the bottom of the plate.
“Do you like your meal, madam?” he asked, his gaze flicking to her over the rim of his glass. “I must say, this chop is cooked perfectly. I shall have the chef provide the recipe to Chef Henri.”
“Do chefs truly trade such prized secrets?” she asked, tilting her head as she sipped her wine. “I would think it most improper.”
“Perhaps,” he said, a teasing glint in his eyes. “But they will make an exception for the Duke of Arrowfell.”
His tone sent a thrill racing through her, a flutter of warmth to her very core.
“Is there anything at all ye cannot control?” she asked, her voice low, teasing, yet carrying a hint of genuine curiosity.
