with her glass and sipped her drink.
“Are you hungry?” Nick wrestled a wheel of cheese from the larder and then commenced plundering in search of a loaf of bread.
“I am. Just a little.”
“I’ll eat with you here then, while Valentine assaults our ears with his infernal finger exercises.”
Nick shaved off slices of cheese then sliced bread as well. A hungry man needed meat—and Nick needed to puzzle out Leah’s mood—so he put the bread and the cheese wheel away, and carved off slices from a hanging ham to add to a growing platter of food. It was too early for strawberries, but Nick put two Spanish oranges on the plate and grabbed two linen serviettes.
After an instant’s hesitation, he decided the enemy picket was in a friendly mood, so he scooted onto the bench beside her.
“I am pleased you did not flounce out of the room upon sighting me,” Nick said as he passed the platter to Leah—an appetizer of honesty. “Eat, for I’ll gobble up all you do not take.”
More honesty, because he was famished.
“What about Lord Val?” she asked, arranging cheese and meat between two slices of bread. “This needs butter, my lord.”
“You are my lording me,” Nick said, getting back up. “Though we do need butter.” He rummaged in the larder and emerged with a dish of butter, sniffing at it delicately. “I’ve warned my steward every year since I bought this place not to let the cows into the upper pasture until the chives are done, but he ignores me, and we get the occasional batch of onion butter.”
“This passes muster?” Leah asked, accepting the butter and a knife from him.
“It does.” Nick resumed his seat on the bench beside her. “Will I pass muster?”
“Are you referring to your proposal?” He watched while Leah put a generous amount of butter on her bread.
“I am.” Nick took the knife and butter from her. “You are not afraid to use enough butter so you can taste it.”
“I like butter.” Leah considered her sandwich while Nick built his own. “And as much as I want to be upset with you for the terms you offer, I find I like you too. Then too, marriage is still considered by most titled families to be a dynastic undertaking. Other things—love, passion, personal preference—are not of great moment.”
They were of great moment to Nick, and yet her words nourished his hopes in a way having nothing to do with food. He studied his sandwich. “You’ll have me then?”
“I’m not sure. I need a little more time to think.”
Damn the luck. “That’s my girl.” Nick patted her hand approvingly. “If I’m going to offer you half measures, then you should at least make me sweat for it.”
“Are you serious, teasing, or complaining?”
“I’m serious.” Nick bit into his sandwich and chewed in thoughtful silence for a moment. If he were to start in complaining, he’d be at it until autumn. “If I could offer you more, Leah, I would. Or I think I would.”
“Thank you, I think,” Leah replied, her tone ironic. “You’re prepared for the fact that I have no dowry?”
“I am.” Nick felt an odd lifting in his chest. She’d meant it when she said she liked him, and whatever temper he’d put her in yesterday, she was navigating her way through it.
“If I’m not to provide you the services of a wife in truth, much less progeny, then I at least want to earn my upkeep.”
“You don’t need to earn your upkeep, Leah.” Nick scowled over at her as she munched her sandwich. “For God’s sake, you’re a lady.”
“How many estates do you control?”
This was not a question from a woman who intended to reject a proposal, so Nick launched into the litany, including the offshore properties.
Leah grimaced. “That must keep you busy.”
“Endlessly, and I hate it, but Beck is entitled to ramble around until he wants to settle down, because he has already traveled for us extensively, and George and Dolph are still at university.”
“If I were your wife,” Leah said slowly, “could you use some help with it all?”
Now he was going to complain, plain and simple. “What kind of help is there? An avalanche of correspondence lands on my desk in English, French, Spanish, and Portuguese and it all must be dealt with posthaste if civilization is not to topple on account of my neglect.”
“How is your French?”
“Spoken?” Nick shot her a leer. “Adequate for my purposes, but written? Deplorable. Spanish and Portuguese, similar.”
“My French is excellent,” Leah