“We are here in good time, are we not?” she remarked in Mr.Taylor’s general direction. She couldn’t think of him asTuckin her head. It felt too personal. Too intimate. How incredible that she’d marry this man in a few days’ time. Even though their motivations for this marriage were to achieve individual goals, the thought of standing before him and exchanging vows made her feel unsteady.
“Here you go.” Tuck slid out a chair for her at a corner table and she almost stumbled while sitting. Wouldn’t that take the biscuit, to fall into his arms? Heavens above, she knew somehow that he’d be gentle, but the notion sent a most peculiar sensation coursing through her, as if tiny butterflies waltzed across her skin.
She had to regain her senses. Immediately.
“I sometimes get ill when in a carriage too long,” she blurted.
Lies.
That had never happened. She’d even ventured out on a boat with Papa before he died, near Portsmouth. Her legs had felt as steady as if she strode across dry land.
“Want something to drink?” Tuck glanced toward the kitchen door. “Get a bite to settle your stomach? The stagecoach is going to be enclosed, right? Being cooped up inside might make you feel worse.”
“I’ll endeavor to sleep.” Here, Lizzy was finally truthful. Or at least partially. Her plan for the next few days was to feign sleep as much as possible. All the better to save herself the embarrassment of encountering strangers in a compromised position and to keep these confusing sentiments related to Tuck—Mr.Taylor—at bay. “But a pot of tea would be lovely as we wait—souchong, if they have it.”
As he went to procure sustenance, she surveyed the interior. It was dim due to the ivy outside that grew over the windows. Butfar from invoking a sense of gloom, the subdued illumination cast the room in a sort of intimate coziness.
Mr.Taylor returned, and it didn’t take long before a girl brought out the tea, along with a few cakes and the usual lemon, milk, and sugar.
“How do you take your tea?” she asked, pouring two porcelain cups.
“Not sure. Can’t say I’ve drunk much before coming here. Why don’t you give me the works?”
She was torn between the urge to laugh and the desire to scoff, compromising with a gasp. “Milkandlemon?”
“Sure. Sounds good. And sugar.” His gaze trailed around the room’s unpretentious interior as if he wasn’t being infuriating.
“One can have milk and sugar.Orsugar and lemon. But not all three.” On this point she was adamant.
He mulled her words for a moment. “Why not?”
“It’s just not done,” she explained. “The acid in the lemon will curdle the milk.”
“Not if I drink it fast.”
“This is serious. You are not a barbarian.”
“You judge people based on how they take their tea?”
“If it’s done incorrectly, yes,” she snapped. “I’ll not wed a savage, even if it is to gain my freedom.”
Was this the moment when Tucker Taylor would reveal himself to be just another insufferable man? Was he the kind of person who would argue that black was white, who would resort to personal attacks against a woman making an argument instead of addressing the merits of the argument itself?
“What do you suggest?”
“A lemon slice,” she answered.
“All right, then. I’ll go with that. Sugar too. Hold the milk.” He seemed wholly unfazed and willing to listen.
She blinked in surprise.
“How are you feeling about everything?” he asked after taking a cautious sip. “That’s good, by the way. You were right.”
She struggled to maintain a neutral expression, trying to hide her confusion. He’d listened to her without getting angry, frustrated, or closing his mind. “I’m... I’m fine.”
“No. Don’t do that.” He placed the cup on the saucer and leaned forward on his elbows. “Not with me. I don’t want the right answer. Give me the real one.”
She hesitated a moment before admitting, “I’m a bit overwhelmed.”
