She agreed and returned to her chambers. The food needed explanations?
* * *
Miss Jameson insisted they were traveling independently, but of course they really weren’t. Kevin saw to that.
As a gentleman, it was his duty to see her safely to Paris, after all. The best way to do that was to travel with her in the carriages and keep watch over her on the packet.
Now, considering her ignorance of the French language and habits, he was obligated to continue acting as her guardian.
He could have said something when he surmised that the hotel manager made inaccurate assumptions about their relationship. He could have made it clear that the two chambers need not be close to each other because Miss Jameson was merely a friend. It would have been possible to do that without saying a word.
But it suited him to allow the assumption to stand.
Dressed for dinner, he presented himself at her door. A maid opened it, a pretty, young one with dark curls and a very French nose. She stood aside so he could enter the sitting room. Rosamund waited there.
She looked ravishing in the lilac dinner dress that she had worn at Aunt Agnes’s. A little headdress with a lively plume sat atop her blond hair. A few little tendrils hung around her face.
He offered his arm. “I thought tonight we would dine here in the hotel, if that suits you.”
She nodded while she looked around the staircase and up to the ceiling as they strolled down. “Me thinks—I think this will not be like eating at a coaching inn.”
“Nor like eating at my aunt’s table. Although there are French cooks in London. My cousin Nicholas has one, for instance.”
“Is the food that different?”
“Some of it is. Much of it is very familiar.”
They were seated in the restaurant. Rosamund stared at the crystal and flowers and finally at the cutlery lined up at her place. She cocked her head and pointed to one eating implement. “What is that?”
“I’ll show you soon.”
It was not his goal to shock her, but he decided that introducing her to new things might be wise. So he ordered champagne, and they laughed when the effervescence affected her nose. He called for shrimp and she enjoyed them. He had the kitchen send out snails.
She eyed them, then him. “What are these?” She poked her fork at one.
“You eat them with that odd little implement that confounded you.”
“But what are they?”
“Gastropods. Cornu aspersum.” He popped one into his mouth. “The French call them escargot. We call them snails.”
She made a face. “Back home we called them slugs, and we didn’t eat them. We squished them or killed them with garlic water.”
“These live in these shells they are lying in now. Slugs don’t have shells.”
“You would know the difference.” It did not sound like praise. She kept poking at one with her fork, as if waiting to see it move.
“They have been eaten since Roman times. They are actually farmed. Try one. I promise there is no slime. They cultivate them so the ones they cook have been rid of that.”
“Must I?”
“Of course not. It takes some courage the first time.”
She used her implement to dig one out of its shell. She examined it. “If I shoot the cat, it will be all your fault for saying I would be a coward to refuse. Pour me more champagne so I can wash it down.”
He did as she bid, then watched her gather her nerve. With one quick movement, she ate the snail, chewed three times, then reached for the champagne and took a good swallow.
“That was not pleasant. Other than the butter, it had little taste, and the texture was odd.”
“It is an acquired taste.”
Sole was served, which was more to her liking. “If you have acquired all these French tastes, you must visit frequently.”
“Fairly often.”
“Have you traveled to other places?”
“I came of age after Napoleon was defeated. I went on a tour of the Continent, like most young men.” He realized how presumptuous that sounded. “At least most of those who are, as you would say, my sort.”
“I’ve never even been many places in England. My home. London and Richmond. Brighton, once.” She shrugged. “Just as well. Your sort speak all these languages. I’m still learning me own.” She grinned after she said that, as if to assure him that she had deliberately made the mistake.
“You do not need to know the languages to travel. Is traveling something you want to do?”
She appeared astonished by the question. “I’ve never thought about it. Such a thing was never possible before. But, yes, I think I would like that someday. It is interesting to see new things and habits. Even snails.”
He wondered what it would be like to revisit the sites on his tour, only this time with Rosamund at his side. He pictured her basking in the warmth of Greece and Egypt, and walking the cobblestones of Florence. He imagined making love to her on a terrace in Positano, and swimming with her in Lake Como.
She set down her fork and knife. “I hope you did not tell them to bring more food. I am very done. In fact, I am so done that I need a walk.”
“I will accompany you. We can take a turn down by the river.”
He waited below while she went above to get a wrap. He had the hotel call for a carriage, then checked for any mail. One letter had arrived. He read it, then tucked it away just as Rosamund descended the stairs.
She looked lovely in the wide-brimmed bonnet she had donned. It flared around her face, its soft cream fabric pleated into a series of folds that acted like lines directing one to look at her eyes. Not that he needed instruction. It had taken true effort not to stare at her all through their meal.
She also wore a long, cream shawl that flowed all around her. Lightweight, it would provide little warmth. It could be chilly
