So now she was the devil’s mistress. She’d not only drunk it, but had imbibed a full glass within ten minutes. Enjoyed it, even, with the cherry taste to it.
But no, to her credit, she had resisted a full glass of it. There was still that sliver of red.
From the way her head was bobbing about, her skull not keeping up with her skin, she suspected that Mr. Flagton had been correct about the liquid all along.
“Pen?”
Her look lifted to Strider. It took long seconds to get from the rim of the glass to his waistcoat to his lawn shirt to his cravat to his chin to his lips. His lips were pretty, even in the angry line that they were always set in. Angry. So angry all the time. Upward. His nose. His eyes. The light brown honey. There they were.
It took an inordinate amount of time to find him. Hopefully he didn’t notice.
“Pen?” The brown in his eyes steeled as his gaze pinned her, his irises now looking like hard, brittle honey that would crack apart if she tapped her fingernail hard enough at them.
He noticed.
She nodded, hoping to hide the fact that her head was quickly floating away from her body. “What was your question?”
He leaned forward, squinting at her. “Blast it, you need food in you now—fast—before you’re retching all over the place.”
“Strider—”
“No, don’t say another word, not until you eat and drink tea and can focus on me without your head flopping about in a circle.” His head shook, a snarl on his lips as he muttered under his breath. “Bloody Flagtons.”
Bloody Flagtons indeed.
The guilt—the shame of drinking what she just had—should be building in her, she knew, but there was not a shred of it. Not the crushing, soul-burning remorse over the hell-driven path of sin she had just embarked on with her tongue.
She was only warm. Her cheeks flush, even. And the constant edge of fear and uncertainty that she balanced on seemed to have just widened into an unending field where she couldn’t even find fear or uncertainty looming about, no matter how hard she looked.
Rather pleasant, all in all.
His head shaking, Strider waved his arm at someone behind her and food suddenly appeared on the table before her. Roasted grouse, the skin of it juicy and hot. Stalks of asparagus and potatoes that were small and round.
She picked up her fork, stabbing at the meat again and again but not getting any of it to stick on her fork.
“For bloody Hades’ sake.” Strider reached across the table with a fork and a knife and began to cut up the meat on her plate.
A knife. That made sense.
“Eat the blasted bread first.”
She did as told and picked up the hunk of bread, tearing into it with her teeth. There was a much more proper way of eating bread. She knew it, but couldn’t quite remember exactly what it was at the moment.
Strider made quick work of her grouse, bite-size pieces now littering her plate. She shifted the bread to her left hand and picked up the fork, stuffing bite after bite into her mouth. Heaven. Each bite heaven.
If she ever got meat from the Flagtons it was hard, crunchy. This meat on her tongue was a memory from another time. The time before the fire. She’d long ago convinced herself that the food that Strider’s mother had made wasn’t any good. But that had been a lie she’d told herself so often that she’d believed it as the truth.
Even this bread was soft.
Her head down, she ate so quickly she didn’t once look up at Strider. Only when her plate was empty with only a few rogue crumbs of the bread latched onto her fingers, did she look up.
He sat there. Not eating. His plate still full of food.
She looked from his plate to her surroundings, her head swiveling.
All seemed to be the same as when they had walked through the dining area. Men and women at tables. The murmur of many conversations. Most of the people in finery that was common in the London parks. None of the diners looked rushed or seemed to pay her and Strider any mind in the dark corner they were ensconced in.
What was it that was amiss?