When a Duchess Says I Do - Grace Burrowes Page 0,5

the garment from the maid and draped it around Matilda’s shoulders. Somebody had hung the shawl near a hearth, for the flannel was warm.

She hadn’t eaten for three days. She hadn’t rested well for weeks. She hadn’t been truly comfortable in an eternity, and the sheer delight of a warmed shawl nearly had her in tears.

“Let’s start with the soup, shall we?” Mr. Wentworth said, ladling Matilda a generous portion. He set the bowl before her, and for a moment, she wallowed in the sensation of steam wafting up to her chin. The scent was hearty, the taste…oh, the taste. Salty—salt was necessary for life—rich, aromatic, with a hint of some spice. Tarragon, perhaps, though pepper was well represented too.

Matilda consumed her food slowly because she’d learned what came of gorging after a fast. Mr. Wentworth ate prodigious portions, though his manners were fastidious. The meal should have been awkward—a lady did not dine in a gentleman’s exclusive company, much less with a gentleman to whom she hadn’t been introduced.

A lady also did not have to debate whether to shiver all night or waste another day’s energy collecting wood. She never viewed winter as a mortal enemy, never stared at some farmwife’s laundry while considering whether to commit larceny. Ladies were lucky creatures.

“Another roll?” Mr. Wentworth asked, holding up a basket.

“No, thank you.”

When Mr. Wentworth went to the sideboard for a second helping of ham, Matilda secreted a pair of buttered rolls in her dress pocket. If she’d been told that each roll consumed meant spending a month in the underworld, she could not have given them up.

She managed to purloin a thick slice of ham to go with the rolls, but forced herself to stop at that. Of the pear compote, she took only three bites—sweets were dangerous on a deprived stomach—but she had two cups of hot China black tea, perhaps the most fortifying aspect of the whole meal.

She was contemplating a third cup when Mr. Wentworth rose and brought a plate of tea cakes to the table.

“I have a sweet tooth,” he said, as if confessing a penchant for excessive wagering. “If you are similarly afflicted, take all you like now. The rest will not go to waste.”

He moved around the end of the table, pausing by the door. Did his wrist pain him? He’d certainly eaten with dispatch, and had not relied on a footman to serve them. Many gentry maintained only a minimal staff, though Mr. Wentworth struck Matilda as something other than—more than?—gentry.

He’d not asked her any more personal questions, which was fortunate. All Matilda had to offer him was a widow-in-difficulties story that he’d recognize as a hastily concocted fiction. He resumed his seat at the head of the table and poured himself another cup of tea. “I trust you enjoyed the meal?”

“Very much. Your cook is to be commended.” And if this was his idea of humble fare, then what menu would he put forth for a dinner party?

“And you are warm enough?”

What was he up to? “I am quite comfortable, and I thank you for your hospitality, Mr. Wentworth, though I must be on my way. The meal—despite the irregular circumstances—was much appreciated.”

And please God, would he seek the company of his dead philosophers rather than escort her from the property? Her belongings, meager though they were, were at the gatehouse, and she could not leave the area without retrieving them.

She tried for a gracious smile, though doubtless, desperation shone from her eyes.

Mr. Wentworth ran a finger around the rim of his wineglass. “The door to this dining parlor is locked, madam. No servant will intrude. You have the privacy of the confessional, more or less, and I suggest you use it to your advantage. My first footman has retrieved a haversack from the gatehouse containing a few effects such as a lady fallen on difficult times might possess. My best guess is that you intended to steal the poached rabbit from the snare, but I ruined your plans.”

Oh.…Perdition. The key was in the lock—Mr. Wentworth hadn’t locked her in so much as he’d locked his staff out. The impropriety of that gesture was equaled only by the perceptiveness that had inspired it.

Matilda could dash his wine into his eyes—a tavern maid had taught her that trick—and bolt, but her cloak was somewhere in the house, as were her belongings. Decamping without them would be mortal folly.

She could fall to weeping and spin a tale, though Mr. Wentworth did not strike