Page 29 of My Darling Mr. Darling

The clean lines of his jaw tightened, and a muscle beneath his left eye twitched. “A bit dramatic,” he said. “I’ll remind you that I certainly had ample opportunity to kill you off—in a legal sense—and elected not to do so.” His voice dropped an octave, and he muttered sourly, “Though at the moment, my reasoning escapes me.”

As if he were the injured party! Violet gritted her teeth and bared them in a feral snarl. “I am touched by the obvious sincerity of your concern for my continued good health.”

“Ididapologize, did I not?” His fingers tightened upon the handle of the basket, and Violet heard the creak and strain of the wood weave beneath the pressure of his hand. As if he had only just recalled that it was in his hand, he held it aloft. “I brought you a plum cake,” he said, his voice snapping with ill humor. “Your favorite. Of course, I failed to consider that you might suspect me of poisoning, so I suppose it was a poor choice.”

“Plum cake?” Violet echoed. The fact that he somehowknewit to be her favorite seemed somewhat less important that the verypresenceof it. Her stomach gave a betraying gurgle.Plum cake—and not just any plum cake, butMrs. Nettles’plum cake. The woman who had cooked for her family since her childhood still worked in Mr. Darling’s household. For a moment she could almost taste it on her tongue, and she pursed her lips against the watering of her mouth.

“Very well,” she contrived to say in a tone of voice that suggested she was making a monumental sacrifice. “Give it here. I will distribute it amongst the staff.” In fact, she would cram it into her mouth at the earliest opportunity, which only required shooing Mr. Darling away from her doorstep. She slid her hand through the crack in the door, uncurling her fingers as she gestured to the basket.

Yet he withheld it from her, a suspicious gleam darkening his eyes. “I thought I heard—” But he broke off, his mouth tightening at the corners. “You’d feed your staff a cake you believe to be poisoned?”

Damn. Foiled by her foolish desire to strike out at him. But that plum cake…she heaved a longsuffering sigh, and ground out between clenched teeth, “Idon’tthink you would poison me.” But she could not risk adding, “I simply don’tlikeyou.”

For some reason, that cracked the cold lines of his face, and the left corner of his mouth hitched up in a wry grin. “And yet your passion for plum cake wins out over that dislike,” he said. “One would think you could order up a plum cake of your own, had you the desire for one. I can’t imagine Serena hasn’t hired a passable cook.”

But it would not beMrs. Nettles’plum cake, and Mrs. Nettles was renowned for her ingenuity and extravagance in the kitchen. And it had been so many years since Violet had sunk her teeth into a proper plum cake, with its heady scent of cinnamon and nutmeg, thick clusters of nuts and fruit, and Mrs. Nettles’ own sweet, sugary glaze. Besides, she wouldn’t be getting a plum cake from the kitchen staff today anyway, even if shedidask for one.

Still he had not surrendered the basket to her, and she switched tactics, hoping to sway him to pity. “Serena’s got me on sickbed fare. A body can’t thrive on beef tea and porridge.” But plum cake was a different matter entirely. Her fingers, still outstretched, twitched for the basket.

That suspicious gleam in his eyes turned calculating. “So youdowant the plum cake, then.”

Violet’s stomach growled again, audibly. “I’m slowly starving to death,” she said with a scowl. “I suppose that pleases you.”

“Not especially.” His chest rose and fell in an abbreviated sigh. “I do wish you would cease accusing me of wanting you dead. I’ve said the flowers were an accident.” His fingers curled around the handle of the basket still tighter, and at last he said, “I’ll make you a bargain.”

Violet sniffed; a less-than-elegant sound, considering the current state of her nose, which was decidedly unpleasant. “A deal with the Devil? Not likely.”

A soft huff that might well have been a laugh—or near enough to it. “I’m afraid the plum cake is contingent upon your acceptance,” he said. “But it’s just as well. I’ve a fondness for plum cake, myself. And Mrs. Nettles does a superior plum cake, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

Violet’s stomach was gnawing at her ribs insistently, and the plum cake was justthere. “Tell me your terms, then,” she snapped. “Before I find myself moved to violence.”

For a moment that shrewd look turned speculative, as if he were trying to determine the truth of her words—and she stretched her lips into a thin smile that displayed as many teeth as she could manage. Though she had not, to memory, struck out at anyone who had not entirely deserved it, confidence was everything when dealing with an unknown adversary.

Whatever he had judged her, he was not fool enough to let it show on his face. Instead he said, “You may have the plum cake, with my compliments—provided you permit me to return for dinner.”

“Are youmad?” Violet hissed. “That would be entirely improper!”

“Of course it isn’t. We’re married.”

“Shh!” If she didn’t know any better, she would think he was goading her, provoking an untoward reaction. And then his lips twitched, and she knew that was exactly what he had intended. Her nails bit into the door jamb as she scowled. “Take your cake and never darken my doorstep again.”

Mr. Darling proceeded as if she had not spoken. “Of course, it’s doubtful that dinner from your kitchen would be anything to write home about, since you’ll no doubt be fed beef tea and porridge again. Perhaps a slice of bread, if you’re very lucky. Naturally, I would have Mrs. Nettles whip up some of your other favorites.”

The gnawing of her stomach turned into a fierce scrabbling, as if the organ endeavored to climb straight up her spine. It simply wasn’t fair. How was she meant to hold out against the promise of proper English cooking?

Somehow, she scrounged around in her lungs and found the words. “Impossible. Davis would toss you straight out on your arse.”

“You’re an intelligent woman, Vi, and a prodigious little sneak-thief. I’m certain you can manage to unlock a door or open a window after the rest of the household has retired,” he said smoothly. And then, as if he knew he had only to tempt her a hair further, he said in a sinfully dark voice, “Roast quail. Chicken in mushroom sauce. Turtle soup. Walnut salad. Potatoes a la crème. Stewed chestnuts.”

“Stop,” Violet implored. Oh, she was weak—but she would lay the blame at Serena’s feet, for with something more substantial in her stomach she would never have fallen victim to such ploys. “Ten o’clock,” she ground out. “Come round the garden. And may God help you if you haven’t brought a strawberry trifle, because I willskeweryou.”

With an agreeable nod, he held the basket out to her, and she snatched it out of his hand. “Ten o’clock, then,” he said.

“And don’t let anyone see you!” she snapped, and shut the door straight in his face to scamper quietly back into the drawing room. Though she would no doubt suffer for it later, the plum cake was every bit as delicious as she had remembered.

Chapter Eleven

John was not much in the habit of shaving in the evening, but it seemed to him that when a gentleman was invited—after a fashion—to dine with his wife, then at the very least he ought to turn up well-groomed. Arriving to a private supper with the shadow of a beard burnishing his jaw would very well fly in the face of every social grace she had endeavored to teach the gentlemen in her charge.