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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.”
He sat up in his chair and coack chair cked his head. “Are you calling me frivolous, madam?”
Her smile widened. “If the shoe fits . . .”
An affronted laugh puffed from his mouth. “I am insulted at my own table and by my own wife! Come, I will kindly give you a chance to retract your statement.”
“And yet I cannot in all conscience do so,” she replied at once. That smile still played about her mouth, and he wanted to reach across the table and touch it with his thumb. To physically feel her amusement. “What would you call a man who has so many favorite foods he can’t choose amongst them? Who gains and loses two fiancées in the course of less than a year?”
“Oh, a low blow!” he protested, laughing.
“Who I have never seen wear the same coat twice.”
“Ah—”
“And who is the friend of every man he meets, yet has not a favorite friend himself?”
Her smile had died, and he had stopped laughing. He’d had a favorite friend once. Reynaud St. Aubyn. But Reynaud had died in the bloody aftermath of Spinner’s Falls. Now he spent his nights among strangers. She was right, his damnable wife; he was the acquaintance of many and the soul mate of none.
