She checked the menu again. Did she want to drink the most expensive tea in the world? Actually, she was curious. “It’s too much.”
“Just this once. My treat.” He smirked.
Smiling, she shot her gaze skywards. “Obviously.”
“I’ll add somelangues de chat.”Cat’s tongues.
She put a hand on her chest. “Half a pound each? Robbery.”
“I want to try them.”
“They’d better be good, or I’ll steal their silverware.”
He laughed, and she smiled. Hearing his deep rumble was like a caress that washed out the tension.
After a server took their expensive order, Violante swept the room with her gaze to understand who the other customers were. Old habits die hard. Her thief’s eye searched for sloppily latched bracelets, open reticules from where to steal wallets and guineas, and easy-to-unfasten gold brooches. She found plenty of targets. But then again, who would spend a pound for a cup of tea if not the ridiculously rich people?
Keith’s hand over hers stopped her search. “Now it’s you who are nervous.”
He brushed her knuckles with his thumb, and the simple gesture transported her back to Windy Ridge where she and Keith had spent lazy afternoons walking up the hill and reading, their fingers stealing furtive touches. The contact was familiar and strange at the same time.
He removed his hand with a snappy move as if just realising he’d touched her. The server came with their tea and biscuits, breaking the moment.
She inhaled the intense, rich aroma of the tea. “Goodness. Just the smell makes me feel better. If it tastes half as good as it smells, it has to be the best tea I’ve ever had.”
He took a sip and nodded. “It’s excellent. Worth every penny.”
She tried it, and the luxuriant, full taste filled her mouth. A tad smoky and fully aromatic. Even better than she’d thought. Thelangues de chatmelted in her mouth, leaving a sweet, buttery trail on her tongue. She might have moaned a little.
“How do you like it?” he asked, taking another biscuit.
“I’m pleasantly surprised. When I had enough money to buy tea, I would use the leaves at least a dozen times until the brew was simply dirty rain. This tea is a dream. Really. I dreamed about these delicacies when I slept under a heap of rags in the street. Although slept is a big word. You can’t sleep when it’s socold your teeth chatter and the icy rain—” She drew in a breath at the way he watched her.
He stared at her with fire in his dark gaze. His eyebrows set low on his forehead, and it seemed the white in his eyes had disappeared.
She wiped her mouth with the napkin. “Did I say something wrong? Was I speaking too loudly?” Their marriage was a pretence, but she was a viscountess now. Ladies didn’t raise their voices.
He gave her the slightest headshake. “I hate that you had to endure such hardships for years while Sir Howard pampered me. If I had known, I would have helped you.”
“I wouldn’t have accepted your help.” She closed her suddenly cold hands around the warm cup of tea. “At first, my anger and denial, fuelled by hunger, were so strong that I believed you were the cause of all my troubles.” She took a fortifying sip of the magical tea. “I hated you,” she whispered.
She chanced a glance at him, worried to see his intense stare burning her. But no. Once again, pain flickered over his tight features.
“You said you don’t hate me now. Is it true?” he asked.
“Five years is a long time to hate someone.”
“That’s not an answer.” Even his voice darkened.
“I don’t hate you. Truly, Keith, you must believe me. If anything, I never have, not even when I believed I did. I directed my anger at you because I was a coward.” She sipped her tea again, needing comfort. “I hated my father.” The confession burned the back of her mouth. She’d never said that out loud, and saying it now didn’t make her feel better. “I hated him for what he’d done, for betraying me, for being a murderer. But, at the same time, I couldn’t hate him because I loved him. I still love him. Everything was so confusing.” She drew in a deep breath. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. Not here. Not now.”
He stroked her hand gently. He didn’t say anything but didn’t need to. The devotion lighting his gaze said it all. He drew slow circles over her knuckles until her breathing returned to normal. It was amazing how his touch soothed her.
“I don’t hate you, Keith,” she whispered to him only because she didn’t want anyone else to hear it. “Quite the opposite.”
“Thank you.” He showed his special smile again, and she acknowledged the turmoil in her chest. He straightened, his expression returning guarded. “The count is here. The man with the tall hat and the dark cloak.”
She threw a casual glance around. A tall, lean man smiled and shook hands with other peers. She would have understood he was Italian even without Keith telling her. The bias cut of his long dark jacket and the type of waistcoat ending with two pointed edges marked him as an Italian, or at least as someone who followed Italian fashion closely.
