“Is that what you think of me, Meredith? That I’m the sort of person who would look with disfavor on a young man because he was brutalized as child?”
The unmistakable hurt in his eyes and voice shamed her. If nothing else, Philip had proven himself to be a decent and kind man. A man of integrity. “No, I don’t think you would. But I’m sure you will agree that many people would not be so generous. And I am very protective of Albert.”
He squeezed her hand. “He is a fine young man, Meredith. I admire his loyalty and bravery. His inner strength. And while I appreciated him pointing out your finer qualities to me, there was no need. I already knew.”
His soft words, the compelling look in his eyes threw her emotions into chaos. Before she could recover, he smiled. “So what is this gift that eleven-year-old Albert gave you that somehow reminded you of me?”
She swallowed to find her voice. “When I first met Albert, he did not know how to read or write. After I taught him, his first effort was a poem he’d composed in my honor. He wore the same sort of unbridled, joyous expression as you when I told you I’d remain for dinner. And as I was then, I’m flattered.”
“I’d wager that you still remember the words to that poem.”
“Oh, yes. I still have it, tucked safely away with my most treasured possessions.” In her mind’s eye she could see each word, written with such painstaking care. “Would you like to hear it?” The instant she asked, she wondered what had prompted her unprecedented offer. She’d never shared Albert’s poem with anyone. Not even Charlotte.
“I’d be honored.”
Too late to renege on her offer now. Drawing a breath, she said, “It read: ‘About Miss Merrie. Her cheeks are like cranberry, her eyes like blueberry. Her smile glows like a luminary. She gave me sanctuary. No more am I solitary. ’”
Silence stretched between them for several seconds, a blessing, as a lump had formed in Meredith’s throat. Those simple words, penned in her honor by a broken, damaged boy, still wrenched her. And humbled her.
“A beautiful testimonial,” he murmured. “And very astute for an eleven-year-old. He managed to capture your very essence, your vividness, your nature, in only a few words. I can see that that poem is very important to you.” He reached out and gently trailed his fingertips over her cheekbone. “Thank you for sharing it with me.”
Heat suffused her cheeks. “You’re welcome.”
“Come. Let me introduce you to the delights of Mediterranean and Mideastern fare. Bakari is an excellent chef.” He led her toward the low table in front of the fireplace, then lowered himself to sit upon a plush maroon pillow, his long legs folded crosswise in front of him. Patting the pillow next to him in an inviting fashion, he looked up with a teasing grin. “I’m going to develop a dreadful crick in my neck if you remain standing.”
Meredith looked down at that pillow and doubts assailed her. If merely
“You have my word I shall not bite you, Meredith.”
Suddenly feeling ridiculous for her hesitation, she gingerly lowered herself to the silk-covered emerald pillow.
“It might seem awkward at first,” he said, stuffing several more pillows behind her, “but after you’ve eaten like this, trust me, the formality of the dining room will lose all its appeal.”
Rising to his knees in a fluid motion, he turned his attention to the array of wares on the table, and she took the opportunity to shift about, arrange her skirts, and fold her legs in the same fashion as he had. Once she’d properly situated herself, she had to admit that this was far more comfortable than a hard wooden chair.
“May I offer you a drink?” he asked, extending a stemmed crystal goblet filled with a deep claret liquid.
“Thank you.”
With his gaze steady on hers, he touched the rim of his glass to hers, and the gentle chime of fine crystal rang in the air. “To a memorable evening.”
Afraid to trust her voice, she merely nodded, then sipped her drink. “Delicious,” she said, savoring the lingering lightly sweet, crisp flavor upon her tongue. “I’ve never tasted anything like it. It is like wine… but not. What is it?”
“In truth, I’m not exactly certain. It is a secret recipe of Bakari’s, one he fiercely guards. I once tried to watch while he made it, but he discovered me. And punished me.”
She raised her brows. “Punished you? How?”
“He refused to make the drink for a month. Never made that mistake again. I don’t know how he makes it. I simply enjoy it when he does.”
Setting his goblet aside, he lifted the cover off a small tureen. A delicious, savory scent unlike anything she’d ever smelled before wafted toward her on a puff of fragrant steam. Her stomach rumbled with hunger. Leaning forward, she watched him ladle out creamy soup into delicate porcelain bowls. “What is that?”
“Avgolemono. It’s a Greek egg-lemon soup.”
Her first spoonful had her eyes sliding closed in delight as the flavor slid over her palate. “Incredible.” By the time she’d finished her soup, Meredith’s trepidation and awkwardness had disappeared as she eagerly awaited the next course. He handed her a plate of delicate steamed fish, flavored with hints of aromatic spices she did not recognize, accompanied by steamed asparagus. After each bite, her eyes again drifted shut, and pleasure-filled
“You are clearly a woman of great passion, Meredith.”
Her eyes popped open, and she found him studying her over the rim of his wineglass with a half-amused, half- heated expression.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because only someone with a passionate nature could enjoy food with such abandon.”
Embarrassment scorched her. Good heavens, in these unfamiliar surroundings, she’d completely forgotten herself.
“Don’t be embarrassed,” he said, his words and the fact that he’d so clearly read her reaction only serving to burn her cheeks further. “Your enthusiasm is a great compliment not only to Bakari, but to me as well. I am flattered that you feel comfortable enough with me to lower your guard.”
Comfortable? She nearly laughed. There was nothing comfortable about the heat and tremors, excitement and pulse-racing this man inspired. Yet, even as that thought entered her mind, she could not deny that in a completely different, difficult-to-define way, she did indeed feel comfortable with him. She enjoyed his company. The sound of his voice. His laugh and quick wit. She could not help but feel that if their situations were different, they might perhaps be… friends.
Friends? With the heir to an earldom? Dear God, she was a candidate for Bedlam.
“You’ve a most interesting expression,” he said. “Would you care to share your thoughts?”
She briefly considered not doing so, but then decided perhaps she should, if for no other reason than to remind him of their divergent stations. “I was thinking how very different we are.”
“Indeed? That is interesting, as I was just thinking how much alike we are.”
“I cannot imagine how you arrived at the conclusion that two people who hail from such different social upbringings are alike.”
“Perhaps our upbringings are not as opposite as you imagine. Why don’t you tell me about yours?”
Panic fluttered in her stomach, and her gaze flew to his. Nothing in his expression or tone indicated anything other than mild interest… or did it?
He shrugged. “Perhaps. But wealth and social standing do not guarantee happiness.” Something in his voice indicated he spoke from experience, and although it pulled at her curiosity, caution kept her from pursuing this conversation that was leading toward questions she couldn’t answer truthfully. And for the first time in years, the thought of lying did not sit right with her.
Looking down, she noticed that a small section of the flounced hem of her gown rested upon his knee, the pale yellow muslin a splash of color against his dark trousers. The sight of her gown touching those fascinating, loose- fitting trousers was inexplicably intimate. Arousing. And stirred her in a way that arrowed heat straight to her core.
“What were you like, Meredith?”
