Page 84 of A Rogues & Gentlemen Christmas

“Bring that dish of eggs, too,” he called.

The next half-hour was spent companionably as he instructed Grace on the art of frying bacon and eggs, and then frying slices of bread in the bacon fat. One half of the bread was darker and crispier than the other, as she’d cut the slices and made a mess of it. One half was as thick as a doorstep, the other wafer thin.

The kitchen was filled with delicious scents and by the time their plates were full, and the table set ready for them, Grace’s stomach was growling with anticipation.

“Ye did a grand job,” he said, smiling his approval at his full plate.

“Oh, but the bread is all lopsided, and I broke your eggs,” Grace said with a frown as she reached for her knife and fork.

“I like them that way,” Mr Hardy said, shrugging.

Grace watched as he cut a thick bit of bacon, then a piece of the fried bread, speared both with his fork, and dipped it in the egg. He closed his eyes as he sighed with pleasure and Grace experienced a rush of something hot and liquid low in her belly at the sound, and sat riveted by the sight of his throat working as he swallowed.

He opened his eyes to discover her staring at him, open-mouthed. Flushing hard, Grace averted her eyes and returned her attention to her breakfast.

They ate in silence for a while as Grace did her best to keep her gaze from returning to his. She’d never been so aware of another person in this way before, as though her body were in some way linked to the man beside her by invisible strings. To her, they thrummed with tension, every movement triggering a response inside her. It was exciting, invigorating, and a little daunting, and she wondered at her boldness in wanting him to feel the same. Grace licked the bacon grease from her lips and dared another glance at him, only to find he was gazing at her this time, his eyes fixed on her mouth. Her heart skittered in her chest. He cleared his throat and looked hastily away.

“There’s a cookery book in the pantry. I bought it for my wife, years back, but she preferred plain fare and never took to it. Mrs Tucknott has used it, though, and made some fine dishes. If ye were wanting to learn such things, ye are welcome to use it.”

“Oh, yes,” Grace said eagerly, grasping at the opportunity to bring something useful to this marriage. “I should like very much to learn. I want to be a help to you about the farm, so I beg that you will instruct me in all the things I must know. I’m sure I could help with the animals in the morning, too.”

Mr Hardy frowned, his expression troubled. “That’s not necessary,” he said, shaking his head. “I can see to the beasts, there’s no need to stir yourself so early. You’ll not be used to it.”

“No,” Grace allowed, her voice hesitant as she sensed his unease. “But if this is to be my life, I should learn. Did your first wife help you in such a way?”

“Aye, of course, but Sarah was born to such a life. You’re a lady, and—”

“Mr Hardy,” Grace said, surprised by the force of her own voice, “you are taking on a wife you neither wanted nor expected. I’m aware of what you sacrifice to do so, that perhaps you had plans to… to court someone.” Grace pushed down the troubling sensation that rose in her chest at that and ploughed on. “I’m bringing nothing but trouble to you, but I’ll not compound that trouble by sitting back and watching you work twice as hard to support a wife who is of no earthly use to you.”

She ground to a halt as she realised he was staring at her, quite obviously bewildered.

“Not want ye?” he said, and she became aware of the quality of his voice, somewhere between outrage and astonishment. “Where in blazes did ye get that hare-brained idea from? ’Cause it weren’t from me.”

There was amusement in the words and, as delighted as Grace was to hear him say such things, she felt a flash of indignation at the falsehood.

“Yes, it was,” she shot back.

His dark eyebrows rose, and he set down his knife and fork. “Lass, I’ve known ye less than twenty-four hours, though I admit that’s hard to credit with all that’s gone on, but I know dam—very well that I’ve never said I don’t want to wed ye.”

“N-No,” Grace said, wishing now she’d never started this conversation, as she’d be forced to explain herself. “But you… you did imply that… that you didn’t….”

Her courage deserted her, and she stared down at her plate.

“Didn’t what?”

Grace took a deep breath, her cheeks hotter than the pan in which they’d fried the bacon. “Didn’t… desire me.”

There was such an absolute silence that she simply had to raise her head and dare to meet his eyes.

He looked dumbstruck. After a time, he collected himself and closed his mouth, which had been hanging open. Grace watched as he rubbed a hand over his face and got to his feet. He paced to the fire, stared at it, and paced back. She looked up at him as he stared down at her, watched him take a breath to speak, stop, rub the back of his neck.

Finally, he cleared his throat and sat down.

“Miss Honeyfield.”

“Grace,” she corrected. “We’re betrothed, after all.”

He smiled at that, his dark eyes warm. “Grace,” he said, and the sound of her name, spoken with that rich country burr, did something to her. It was so tender. Her heart thudded, her skin so alive that she was aware of everything, from the warmth of the fire at her back and the garters tied about her thighs, to the too big clothes bunched at her waist, the fabric rasping against flesh that seemed suddenly oversensitive.