Page 84 of Duke of Moonstone
“You are particular about a great many things.”
“Not food. Food is simple.”
Unlike everything else between us.He did not say it.
The carriage slowed as they entered the town. Stony Stratford announced itself without ceremony. The coachman pulled over in front of a tavern with a low-beamed facade and a painted sign that had seen better days.
Alexander descended first. He turned and offered his hand.
Frances took it. Her fingers were slim inside the glove, her grip light, and the contact lasted no more than two seconds before she stepped back and released him. Two seconds. He counted them.
Stop counting.
The tavern was crowded. Not fashionably full, but authentically crowded: farmers still in their work coats, merchants with ledgers beside their plates, and a group of mail-coach travelerseating hurriedly before the horn sounded. The air smelled of roasted meat, bread, and tobacco smoke, and the noise was loud.
Alexander guided Frances to a table near the back wall. It was small, and the bench was scarred with use. He pulled out the chair for her.
“Charming,” Frances said, surveying the room.
“I did not promise charm. I promised a meal.”
“You promised Stony Stratford. The meal was implied.”
He sat across from her. The table between them was perhaps eighteen inches wide. Their knees did not touch. He was aware of exactly how much space separated them.
A serving girl appeared. Alexander ordered mutton, bread, whatever vegetables were available for both of them, and ale for himself while Frances requested tea if they had it, water if they did not. The girl disappeared.
Silence settled once more. Frances folded her hands in her lap. Alexander glanced around the room. At the beams overhead. At the group of mail-coach passengers arguing about the condition of the road north of Towcester.
This is absurd. We are husband and wife, traveling together, and we cannot manage a single sentence that is not about food or stopping times.
He opened his mouth.
The door swung wide.
A family burst through—the man, a woman, and four children ranging from about twelve to no more than four, all talking at once. The man wore a plain wool coat with patches at the elbows. The woman held the youngest on her hip. They were laughing about something, and the sound of it filled the doorway and spilled into the room like sunlight through a gap in curtains.
They took the table beside Alexander and Frances. The mother set the youngest in a highchair. The eldest daughter immediately began organizing her younger brothers with the efficiency of a miniature general.
One of the boys, who looked to be eight or so with a mop of brown hair and a gap where his front teeth should have been, carried a ball. He set it on the table while he shrugged off his coat, and it rolled.
It came to rest against Frances’ foot.
Frances bent, picked up the ball, and held it out to him with a smile. “I believe this belongs to you.”
The boy took it. Clutched it to his chest. “Thank you, miss.”
“You are very welcome.” Her smile widened. “It is a fine ball. Do you play often?”
“Every day.” He straightened, emboldened. “I’m the best bowler in our lane. Everyone says so.”
“The best! That is high praise.”
“Not everyone says so,” the eldest sister corrected from the next table. “Tom Harding says he’s better.”
“Tom Harding is a liar,” the boy said with the conviction of someone who had tested this claim extensively.
Frances laughed. “I am sure you could beat any Tom Harding.”
