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He thought of the endless damnable night hours and how he tried to fill them with the company of drunken strangers. “Most kind. I’m afraid I can’t withstand the temptation of a masquerade ball. Perhaps it’s the pleasure of watching otherwise dignified gentlemen and ladies prance about in dominoes and masks. Childish, I know, but there it is.”
She didn’t comment but merely watched him as she sipped from her wineglass. A single line had incised itself between her brows. Perhaps he’d revealed too much.
“You look lovely tonight,” he said to change the subject. “The candlelight becomes you.”
“I’m disappointed.” She shook her head sadly. “I sit with one of London’s most famous lovers, and he tells me the candlelight becomes me.”
His mouth twitched. “I am chastised, madam. Then shall I compliment your eyes?”
She widened them. “Are they liquid pools that doth reflect my soul?”
A surprised laugh burst from his lips. “Lady, you are a hard critic. Shall I tell you of your wondrous smile?”
“You may, but I may yawn.”
“I can shower praises on your figure.”
She arched a mocking brow.
“Then I shall expound upon your sweet soul.”
“But you don’t know my soul, sweet or otherwise,” she said. “You don’t know me.”
“So you’ve said before.” He sat back in his chair and examined her. She looked away from his gaze as if regretting her challenge. Which only piqued his interest more. “But you haven’t offered any insight into who you are either.”
She shrugged. One hand was pressed to her belly; the other idly twirled her glass stem.
“Perhaps I should go exploring into my lady wife’s mind. I shall begin simply,” he said gently. “What do you like to eat?”
She nodded to the cooling beef and Yorkshire pudding on her plate. “This is nice.”
“You don’t make this easy.” He cocked his head. Most ladies of his acquaintance loved to talk about themselves—it was their favorite subject, in fact. Why not his wife? “I mean, what do you like to eat most of all?”
“Roast chicken is nice. We can have that tomorrow night, if it’s agreeable to you.”
He placed his arms on the table and leaned toward her. “Melisande. What is your favorite food in all the world?”
She finally looked up at him. “I don’t believe I have a favorite food in all the world.”
Which nearly drove him over the edge of reason. “How can you not have a favorite food? Everyone has a favorite food.”
She shrugged. “I’ve never thought about it.”
He sat back in exasperation. “Gammon steak? Biscuits with butter? Ripe grapes? Seed cake? Syllabub?”
“Syllabub?”
“You must have something you like. No. Something you adore. Something you crave in the dark of night. Something you dream about at afternoon teas when you should be listening to the old lady sitting next to you, droning on about cats.”
“You yourself must have a favorite dish, if your theory holds true.”
He smiled. A feeble attack. “Pigeon pie, gammon steak, raspberry tart, ripe fresh pears, a good beef steak, biscuits hot from the oven, roasted goose, and any kind of cheese.”
She touched her wineglass to her lips but did not sip. “You’ve listed many foods, instead of one favorite.”
“At least I have a list.”
“Perhaps your mind cannot settle on one favorite.” Her lips tilted at one corner, and he noticed for the first time that although they weren’t lush and full, her lips were elegantly curved and rather lovely. “Or perhaps, having none to raise above the others, they are all equally mundane to you.”
