Page 49 of Ruined by the Wrong Earl

She smiled then, and his gut tightened like a fist. ‘The food is divine.’

He was aware of the sway of her hips as she walked towards the tavern door. Once inside, his attention turned to the interior. The place appeared like any other tavern. Men in patched jackets and worn boots sat at tables drinking from tankards of ale or cheap gin.

A barmaid carrying a tray laden with tankards stopped when she spotted them. ‘Is that you, Nora?’ she asked.

‘Hello, Niari,’ Nora addressed the barmaid with a wide smile. ‘Is Berj here?’

The barmaid disappeared behind the counter and shouted out a name. Moments later, a short bald man with a belly waddled forth. ‘Nora! So good to see you again.’ He hugged her then proceeded to kiss each of her cheeks before turning to Ralston. ‘Is this the Englishman you married?’

‘It is,’ Nora said. ‘May I introduce the Earl of Ralston.’

‘A lord?’

She turned to Ralston. ‘This is Berj Gregorian. The owner of this fine establishment and my father’s friend.’

He was aware of Nora watching him. Clearly, she was nervous about how he would react to a family friend. She needn’t be. Ralston offered his hand. ‘Thank you for having us.’

Berj shook the Earl’s hand without preamble. ‘Come along then. There is a feast for you both.’

They passed through swinging doors into a private room where a small dining table was waiting. A single oil lamp cast a soft glow on the table and a vase of fresh flowers. Ralston stepped behind her to pull out a chair, his hand brushing the small of her back as she sat. His fingers itched with the need to caress the smooth skin at her nape. He took his seat across from her.

‘Are we the only ones here?’ he asked.

Her green eyes were bright. ‘Yes, Berj assured me we would have the room to ourselves. I’m eager for you to try the food.’

It was the second time she’d mentioned it. Something in the way she spoke—soft and expectant—made him suspect it was more than food she was offering.

A server entered and placed a small plate of what looked like two tightly wrapped cigars before them. Ralston leaned in, catching the unfamiliar scent of the dish.

‘They are grape leaves,’ she said, as she watched him closely. ‘They serve English fare in the tavern, but here, in the private room, they serve Middle Eastern cuisine. Food is important in my culture, and I want to share it with you. These grape leaves are stuffed with meat, rice and spices and served warm. The dish is called sarma. Don’t be shy and eat with your fingers.’ She picked up one, brought it to her lips and bit into it, the gesture oddly sensual. He couldn’t help but follow the movement of her mouth as she slowly chewed, seeming to savor each bite.

He selected one and took a bite himself. The tartness of the grape leaves combined with warm meat and rice was surprisingly delicious. He eyed the dish, wishing there were more than two.

‘What do you think?’ she asked, a hint of nervousness underlying her tone.

‘I like it. Is there more?’

She released a husky laugh. ‘There is much more, but I want you to sample different dishes. Like I said, food is important, and I have many memories of my father’s aunties and friends visiting and sitting around the table in our home eating while listening to their stories.’

‘Your parents came from different words. They must have been a love match.’

She released a sigh. ‘Yes, they were. My mother was happier when my father was alive. They had to convince both their families to marry, but by the time my sisters were born, our families had grown amicable. It was difficult growing up straddling both words, but as I’ve gotten older, I would not trade it for anything.’

He thought of his own childhood. His parents had not been a love match. They had not been overly affectionate towards each other or towards him and they’d died after he’d graduated Oxford. He’d known his mother loved him, but she was busy with her social agenda. When he was young, he’d stay with his governess during balls they hosted, and when he was older, he’d been required to attend them. It was a typical aristocratic childhood, different than Nora’s.

The next dish appeared. What looked like a pâté served with flat unleavened bread.

‘This is hummus, a staple in the Mediterranean and Middle East, and is made of ground chickpeas with tahini, garlic and lemon. The pita bread is hot from the oven.’ She tore a piece of the soft bread, dipped it in the hummus and held it out to him without a word.

He accepted it from her hand, brushing her fingers with his as he took the coated bread into his mouth. It was like nothing he’d eaten before. Creamy and full of flavour, he wanted to pick up the bowl and eat it with a spoon. ‘It’s unique and I want more.’

Her widened eyes flicked to him, as though unsure if he meant the dish or something else. His heart thundered at an unnatural pace.

The door opened once again. Skewers of roast lamb and chicken she called shish kebab were served on a bed of rice pilaf followed by a savory stew of lamb with honey and almonds. They ate slowly, intimately; the cuisine was unlike anything he’d tasted.

‘We don’t drink tankards of ale but ouzo, an anise-flavoured alcohol favored by the Greeks.’ She poured two small glasses of the milky-white drink and handed one to him, then raised her own glass.

He watched her lips as they touched the rim of her glass. He raised his own. The unique anise taste reminded him of licorice. He’d always loved licorice.