“I don’t know if you’ve had this particular dish of Cook’s. It’s simple, but mouthwateringly delicious.”
Looking somewhat taken aback, she nevertheless opened her mouth, accepting the offering.
Propping his elbow on the armrest and his chin on his fist, he stared at her, making no pretense of the fact.
She chewed, swallowed, and a pink blush crawled up her cheeks. When she went to employ her own cutlery, he brushed her hands aside, cut a succulent morsel of the tender meat, and held it toward her.
This time, she frowned, searching his face as if trying to ascertain what game he was playing. “Aren’t you hungry?”
“Yes,” he said in all honesty—in more ways than one. “I simply enjoy watching my wife eat.”
Her blue eyes widened. Her lips parted, then closed over the fork.
Next, he scooped up her wine and handed it to her.
A bemused smile curving her mouth, she took it and sipped.
Only then did he begin his own meal.
They ate in companionable silence for the next several minutes. Then, very deliberately, she set down her fork. “I don’t entirely blame you, you know.”
He slid her a look. “No? For which part am I not to blame, if you don’t mind my asking?”
She picked up her wine, sipped. “Earlier, I did not want to give your accusations credence, but, upon reflection, I should have considered Caroline’s safety when we made the decision to go out so late in the day.”
“Caroline’s safety,” he echoed, nonplussed.
She picked up her fork and toyed with the food on her plate. He was glad to see she had made a dent. Earlier, he’d asked Cook to make this special—for her. To tempt her. Because he’d detected a pattern with Annabelle. It seemed when his wife had something on her mind, she lost her taste for food.
But she could be lured into eating. He smiled to himself.
“I know how much your sister means to you. As it happens,” she said, huffing out an embarrassed laugh, “she means quite a lot to me, as well. I would never put her in danger. Not for anything in the world.”
His momentary triumph faded. “I see. So you thought, what? That my anger stemmed from worry over my sister?”
She nodded. “Of course. I know how very protective of her you are. Of your entire family.”
“That is entirely true,” he admitted. He reached across and forked up a portion of peas in gravy from her plate, then held it to her.
“Sterling, you really do not need to—”
“Humor me,” he murmured.
She acquiesced.
Then he spoke. “My sister paid me a visit—following our…er…discussion.”
She swallowed. “Did she?”
“Yes.” He fed her a bite of potato. “She told me in no uncertain terms I’d been a brute, and that she understood what lies behind my less-than-stellar attitude.”
“Of course. She would,” she said. She lowered her gaze to her lap, but not before he’d glimpsed what he had been too dense to see before.Hurt.
Not becausehe’d snapped at her. But because ofwhy—in her skewed opinion—he’d done so.
Which left him a choice. To leave her with her mistaken assumption, or bare a part of himself that he had never let into the light.
He could easily do the former. After all, she no longer fumed with anger. But for some reason, he did not want to take the easy way out.
