Page 69 of Cocky August Rake

“Occasionally, but unless I hoarded them, they didn’t last long. Depending on the last port… In Canton, candied ginger—mouthwatering little slices crusted with sugar. It burned before it sweetened.” He paused, his gaze lingering on her, and couldn’t help but smile. “Sweetness with a little bite.”

The server returned with a tray so laden, the contents nearly covered the table by the time she’d set it all down.

Once she’d gone, Reginald waited for Rose to taste the chocolate. Her eyes softened with pleasure before he lifted his own cup.

“Well?” he asked.

Rose laughed. “It’s lovely. Almost as good as my grandmother’s. Hers was thicker.”

Her grandmother.

It was the first mention of any family, and Reginald tucked it away.

“Do you like it?” She tilted her head and a delicate blonde tendril curled around her chin.

“I do, though I miss the spice of it.” At her puzzled look, he explained, “In Cádiz, they add cinnamon. I grew rather fond of the taste.”

They lingered over the pastries, sampling one after another while the chocolate cooled in their cups.

Rose kept asking questions, and Reginald found himself answering them. He told her of distant ports, strange dishes, and spices she’d never encountered. Some of his stories should have shocked her.

Instead, she leaned closer and asked for more.

And because Reginald seemed incapable of looking anywhere but at her, he noticed when her hand drifted toward the sugar bowl.

His gaze flicked to her cup. She had already sweetened her chocolate.

Rose hesitated.

Then her chin lifted. She closed her fingers around a few pieces, and tucked both hands into her lap, as though daring him to comment.

He said nothing.

“My grandmother was a baker,” she said instead. “She worked in a bakehouse when she was young, then later from our rooms. Making bread, mostly. Buns when she could afford currants.” A faint smile touched her mouth. “Sometimes apple puffs. Pastry folded over stewed apples, with sugar scattered across the top while they were still warm.”

“She sold them?”

“Yes. Though she was never terribly strict about the extras.”

Reginald liked to think of Rose as a young girl, enjoying her grandmother’s sweets. And yet… If her grandmother was still alive, he doubted Rose would have ended up at The Domus.

“She is passed?” he asked softly. The way she spoke about the woman, it was fairly obvious.

“Yes.” Her smile faded. “I came home from school one afternoon and found her lying on the floor, right by the oven. Biscuits in the oven, burned to a crisp.” The words were quietly spoken, as though the memory had stolen all the strength from her lungs.

“Was it just the two of you?”

He asked despite already knowing the answer. Hoping, absurdly, that there had been an aunt. A neighbor. Someone who had taken the frightened child inside and told her she would be cared for.

“Just me.” Rose smiled brightly. Too brightly.

His chest tightened.

“What did you do?”

“I found work where I could. Washing. Carrying parcels. Helping in kitchens.” She gave a small shrug. “None of it lasted.”

“Why not?”