“Good.” Clara considered. “And perhaps a little rouge today. And a touch of charcoal about the eyes. Only a very little.”
Nell glanced at her. “Of course, My Lady. Is there a particular occasion? Are you expecting a caller?”
“I expect no one. I should simply like to look my best.”
She did not admit to Nell the real reason—that she and Julian had finally begun, after weeks of circling one another, to move toward true unity, and she wanted very much to look her best for him when they did.
“I suppose I could pass it off as still dressing for the ball,” she said with a small laugh.
Nell smiled and began on her hair. By the time she had finished, it occurred to Clara that she still had no notion of the hour.
“Is it still morning?” she asked.
Nell laughed. “It is well past, My Lady. Nearly eleven.”
“Goodness. I suppose His Grace has already breakfasted.”
“No, in fact, he rang for Charles only a quarter of an hour before you rang for me.”
“Good.” Clara knew perfectly well that Julian took an age to dress in the mornings which meant there was every chance she could still catch him at breakfast. “Has Mrs. Holt already seen to David?”
“She has. She was up early and fed him at six. He is sleeping in his chamber now. Mary, one of the maids, is looking after him. Mrs. Holt and Molly have gone out walking.”
Clara nodded. “Very well. I shall go down for breakfast.”
She did as she had said and found the breakfast room already laid, servants bringing in hot tea and chocolate. A bowl of steaming porridge appeared in front of her, and her stomach growled with sudden, unmistakable hunger. She had meant to wait for Julian. However, surely one spoonful would do no harm.
She took a heaping mouthful, closed her eyes, and let out a small, contented hum.
“Goodness, I shall never understand how anyone can enjoy salty porridge as much as you appear to. I have always thought it the most peculiar thing I have ever witnessed when a person likes it.”
She looked up. Julian had come in without her noticing.
“You ought to try it,” she said after swallowing.
He placed one hand on her shoulder and pressed a kiss to her cheek before taking his seat, as easily as if they were a true married couple who had done this every morning of their lives.
“I have tried it. It is dreadful. Like eating paste. One could take it outside and use it to build a brick wall.”
“You have simply not had good porridge.” She stopped then got up entirely and hurried into the adjoining drawing room. She heard him calling her name in some confusion. Two minutes later, she returned with a small box.
“I thought I had offended you so thoroughly with my dislike of porridge that you had abandoned me,” he said.
“Not at all. I had to fetch this.” She held up the box and opened it, withdrawing two pieces of marzipan which she pressed into her bowl. “The heat will dissolve it, and then I swirl it through, and it is even more delicious.”
“You certainly know how to ruin a perfectly good piece of marzipan. I had those sent from the finest patisserie in town.”
“I assumed as much. That only makes it better.” She took a mouthful and nodded with great satisfaction. “Divine,” she said, still slightly full-mouthed.
“How unladylike,” he said, laughing, and reached for a roll.
She filled her spoon again, but this time turned it toward him instead of herself. “Try a little.”
“I am not David,” he said. “May I remind you, I am a grown man, not an infant.”
“A grown man ought to be able to manage one spoonful of marzipan-infused porridge without making such a fuss about it.”
“I am not making a fuss.” He opened his mouth regardless, and she fed him the spoonful. He licked it from the spoon with the wariness of a man approaching a duel.
