She watched his face carefully as he chewed. His visage was somewhat peculiar. He either loved it or despised it, and there was no telling which from his expression alone. She watched his throat move as he swallowed.
“That was odd,” he said at last. “I adore marzipan. I detest oats. For one moment, I loved it, and the next, I hated it entirely. I do not believe I should like to repeat the experiment.”
“Then I shall not make you,” she said.
He spread butter on his roll, followed by a generous layer of lemon curd, and took a bite. “Now,” he said, waving the roll about for emphasis, “that is a proper breakfast.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Lemon curd. I think not.”
“You do not like it?” He tore off a small piece, dressed it with more curd, and held it toward her mouth. “You made me try yours.”
She groaned and reached to take the piece from his fingers, but he shook his head, and so she simply opened her mouth and let him place it there himself.
She was not entirely certain whether it was the curd or the fact that Julian had just fed her bread by hand, which was a rather more intimate gesture than either of them had acknowledged, but she found, somewhat to her own surprise, that she enjoyed it.
“Very well. I grant you it is not terrible.”
“Good,” he said. “I shall convert you from oats yet.”
“I think not,” she said, and they both laughed, and the ease between them felt exactly as it had before Dover, before everything had gone wrong. Easier, perhaps.
“You know,” she said, “you might easily have scandalized your servants last evening.”
“Me?” He looked genuinely puzzled. “What in the world did I do? I confess I was somewhat in my cups by the end, but I had not thought it was quite so bad as that.”
“I meant at the end of the evening. When you kissed me. Anyone might have walked out and seen us.”
He waved a hand. “We are married. A husband can kiss his wife anywhere in his own house that he pleases.”
He said it so easily, as though it were the most natural thing in the world, as though the two of them had not married for an entirely different reason altogether.
“Julian,” she said and turned toward him.
He looked up and turned his chair slightly, giving her his full attention. “Yes?”
“I think there is something we ought to discuss.”
“I think there are several somethings,” he said, and there was a warmth in the way he said it that made her chest tighten pleasantly. But before he could say anything further, hurried footsteps sounded in the hall, and Marianne burst into the room.
She was dressed for outdoors, but it was plain she had been running. Her cheeks, usually so pale, were flushed deep red, and strands of hair had come loose and whipped about her face as she skidded to a halt. Her bonnet sat askew. Molly bounced on her hip, likewise windblown.
“I saw a carriage,” she said, breathless. “Going away at great speed. It may be my mind playing tricks, but I believe I saw Sebastian Devereau inside.”
Julian and Clara both rose at once.
“Coming from which direction?” Julian demanded.
“From here. It was coming from the house, going toward the London road.”
“David.”
“I have already sent Richmond up to check,” Marianne said. “I saw him as I came in.”
The three of them moved toward the hallway, ready to run up to the nursery, when Charles, the valet, and Richmond both burst in from the other direction.
“He is gone,” Charles said.
“The baby is gone,” Richmond confirmed, as though the first declaration had not been sufficiently clear. “The crib is empty.”
