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Cleo bit her lip, feeling very certain that the last thing she wanted was fish.

His dark gaze went to her mouth and then quickly back to her eyes. “Please?” His voice had a raspy note that sent flickers over her skin.

She didn’t need her mother’s prompting—the mother who had gone almost entirely silent, just when maternal advice might be welcome!—to know that she was in precarious waters. “All right,” Cleo said reluctantly. “But then you must return to your suite, Jake. If we did cause a scandal, I would refuse to marry you, and my grandfather would be embarrassed and, I daresay, deeply hurt.”

He nodded and held up the square of bread.

Cleo opened her mouth, and he popped it inside. To her surprise, her mouth sang with happiness. The kipper was smoky, salty, and fatty. What’s more, the bread tasted fresh, as if it had been toasted that moment over a fire, rather than being trundled up from the depths of the hotel.

A satisfied look spread over Jake’s face. “When you find yourself missing your mother, if you eat enough kippers, the ache of it will go away.”

He held out another square, and Cleo obediently opened her mouth. “Kippers are a panacea for grief?” she asked, after she swallowed.

“My father died unexpectedly. Kippers helped.”

She smiled faintly. “I wish I’d known that when my own father died. What happened to yours?”

He hesitated.

“You needn’t tell me,” she said, seeing that his jaw had hardened.

“He became addicted to opium,” Jake said flatly, looking up. “Doctors had given it to him for an injured shoulder.”

“That’s why you changed your name,” Cleo guessed. She reached out and picked up a piece of kipper on toast. “Here.”

He opened his mouth. He had beautiful lips. Cleo swallowed hard and then leaned in, trying to pop the toast in his mouth without touching his lips. They closed around her fingers, and his tongue licked a caress before he let her free.

“I . . .” Cleo began, with no idea what she would say.

At least the dark look in Jake’s eyes was gone. “Better than kippers,” he said huskily.

“I’m sorry about your father’s death,” Cleo said, trying to ignore the tight feeling in her chest. “I gather you became an Addison after you lost him?”

“I refuse to be associated with the opium trade,” Jake said. “There are other addictive substances.” His eyes searched hers. “You, for example.”

Panic made Cleo’s heart speed up. She wasn’t ready for . . . for whatever this was. “I miss my mother less than I did a few months ago,” she found herself saying. “She used to talk to me in my head every hour or so. But now her voice is silent, and I miss that, as if I’ve lost another part of her.”

Smiling faintly, Jake held up a piece of toast. “Eat,” he said, simply.

The door opened, and Robbins entered with a steaming pot of coffee.

“Thank you,” Cleo said. She nodded at the footman, and he backed out the door.

She wasn’t feeling sadness; instead, a mild terror was rolling around in her stomach. What would become of this friendship with a huge American man with unpolished manners and the tendency to blurt out raw truths?

“I want to kiss you again,” Jake announced, proving her point.

“I am not available for casual busses,” Cleo stated.

“Why not?”

She frowned at him. “Why not? What we shared was no mere kiss, Jake. If we continue in that vein, we shall find ourselves in bed. I hope you don’t expect me to shilly-shally around the subject.”

He nodded, chewing meditatively. “That’s true.”

“I don’t care to have an affaire with you, and I’m uninterested in marriage.”

“So you said. I am growing curious about your mother.”