Page 56 of The Exquisite Torment of Loving Your Enemy

“ ‘Wife’ is rather a nice word,” said Mordaunt.

“As you say, sir,” said the waiters.

“Wife. Wife. Wife.”

Aurienne spotted an almost empty glass in Mordaunt’s hand, which explained things. “I see you’ve already started drinking.”

“In my defence, they brought up Dolgoch’s,” said Mordaunt, holding up a fancy-looking bottle of Scotch.

He, too, had hardly bothered to dress. He was in a fresh shirt, largely unbuttoned, and trousers that looked as though they might not even be fastened under the untucked shirt. His hair, still wet, was a shade darker than usual. He lounged, glass in hand, with the easy confidence of a man who knows he is attractive.

The waiters helped them into their chairs and advised them of the evening’s menu—braised oxtail, monkfish, potato boudin, and all of the etceteras—after which they lined themselves along the wall.

Mordaunt dismissed them. “We’ll fend for ourselves, thank you. We live in a rough-and-ready way, don’t we, Mrs. Hungwell?”

Aurienne could only produce a polite smile in response to thisabsurdity. The waiters wished them bon appétit, made their bows, and left.

“Rough-and-ready?” repeated Aurienne. “As you pluck silver cloches off of our plates?”

“I am a rustic. A son of toil.”

“You are a perfect princeling.”

“Thank you; it’s true,” said Mordaunt.

He poured her a glass of champagne. Effervescence danced upon their tongues. They had the oxtail and the monkfish and the etceteras. Candles floated among roses. They emptied the bottle of champagne. Now only a bit of it was left, at the bottom of each of their glasses, and, to draw out the champagne, or the moment, neither of them lifted their glass to their lips.

Mordaunt, looking at the lake, said, “That was the second time we’ve had to pull ourselves out of water like drowned rats.”

“Perhaps it’s part of the process,” said Aurienne. “Both healings were successful.”

“Make a note in our merkin.”

“Mymerkin.”

The waiters returned to clear the dishes and left them with a chocolate mousse and a dessert wine. Mordaunt inspected the latter and tilted the bottle inquisitively at Aurienne, who nodded yes.

She savoured mousse off a spoon. The accompanying wine was sunny, sweet, subtly floral. Her cheeks were warm. She was pleasantly cloudy-headed. Was this irresponsible? Was this all right? Was she not allowed to drink and be irresponsible after what she had just achieved at the top of that waterfall?

Mordaunt idly spun a butter knife across his fingers. Rose petals made small, velvety constellations in the centrepiece. All of the candles had gone out save two, slow dancing on the water. Light touched Mordaunt’s fine profile and then, when he turned to Aurienne, warmed his eyes.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked.

As one might remark on a change in the weather, Aurienne said, “I stopped hating you today.”

The knife ceased its twirling. Mordaunt, fixed in place as though he might disturb some spell, asked, “Why?”

“Because you were just—someone happy that they were getting better.”

The knife resumed its twirling. Mordaunt, with a lilt of pleasure, asked, “Do you fancy me, then? It’s all right if you do: everyone does, eventually.”

Aurienne vexed him by laughing. “There are many gradations of feeling between hate and fancy. Indifference, for example.”

Mordaunt’s knife stopped again. “Don’t be indifferent to me. I’d much prefer you hate me.”

“Very all or nothing, in terms of approach.”

“I am nothing if not immoderate.”