Page 101 of How Not to Marry a Duke

He eyed it. “I’ve no need for medicine.” He rubbed the sleeve of his arm. “I’m cured, thanks to you.”

“I know. I didn’t bring my salve this time.” She lifted the checked cloth covering her treasure. “I brought you something special to eat. Dolma—grape leaves and vegetables stuffed with meat and rice. There is also hummus and za’atar, Middle Eastern spice consisting of thyme and sesame seeds. Both are eaten with pita bread.”

He glimpsed inside the basket, and she wondered if he would turn his nose up at the foreign food or embrace it.

“You cook as well as heal? What other talents have you hidden from me?”

His nearness and teasing nature caused her heart to flutter in her breast. “I don’t cook often. Hasmik is talented in the kitchen. Dolma is her specialty.”

“I’m famished. Time passes me by, and I often forget to eat when I’m working.”

Her lips twitched. “I’m not surprised. Perhaps you should invent a clock that alerts you when too much time has passed since your last meal.”

“You mean a small electric shock?”

“Goodness. Nothing that serious.”

“Good to know.” He walked around the desk and took the basket from her. “Come. I’m hungry and have the perfect place in mind to share a meal.”

He led her outside and spread a blanket on the grass beneath the shade of one of the large oaks on his property. She removed plates and food from the basket and served him. He chose one of the stuffed tomatoes first. At the first taste of the dolma, his brows rose. She waited and watched him, not wanting to miss his slightest reaction.

Would he like the Mediterranean dish? Or wrinkle his nose in distaste?

His green eyes met hers. “It’s delicious. So much flavor.” He ate with gusto, and she smiled in delight when he complimented her on the homemade pita bread. When she reached for the za’atar spice, he raised a hand.

“How do you eat it?”

“You must add olive oil to the za’atar, then dip your pita into the mixture to get the full flavor of the thyme and sesame seeds. Along with the hummus, it’s one of my favorites.”

She poured a small amount of olive oil into a shallow bowl and combined the oil and spice mixture. Then she tore a piece of pita bread, dipped it in the bowl, and offered it to him.

He bit into the bread, then his eyes met hers. “Extraordinary. English fare is bland in comparison.”

Her heart did a pitter-patter. She should have known a man as educated as the duke would be willing to experience new cultures and foods. Edwin had turned his nose up at anything her mother had attempted to expose him to.

Warwick, on the other hand, helped himself to seconds of everything. She couldn’t help but wonder how he would react to a visit to the diverse section of London. Would he think the sounds of the instruments, the dumbek, oud, and the duduk, odd? Would he be disdainful of the closeness of her mother’s family and friends, the way they danced and talked in a mixture of English, Arabic, Armenian, and Greek?

She swallowed. It didn’t matter. He was a duke, and she knew they wouldn’t be together much longer. Eventually, he would have to return to London and his duties.

“I’m pleased you enjoy the food.” It was a safe remark, one that didn’t reveal the inner workings of her mind.

“Who wouldn’t enjoy it?”

“You’d be surprised.”

He swallowed the bread. “You mean Edwin.”

“For one.”

“He was always close-minded.”

That was a kind way to describe Edwin. She didn’t want to ruin the pleasant moment thinking of her half brother.

“Let us not think of him,” Warwick said as if reading her mind. “How is Henry faring?”

“Thankfully, there is no sign of infection. We mixed table scraps with his feed and his appetite has returned.”

“Ah, it must be a good sign when a pig wants to eat.”