“Clothing is the first thing we must do, because I cannot bear looking at you in that much longer. Shall we send for the modiste? Or go directly to her shop? Since you’ll be in a hurry for something to wear, we probably should go to her shop to see if she has something already made.” He motioned toward the door. “Shall we go?”
“Shall we have some breakfast first?” she asked instead. The idea of being in a closed carriage with him was even worse than sitting opposite him at the breakfast table. She’d have to converse with him. And breathe the same air as him. And not wonder if he was remembering what they did together. Heat crept up her face.
“Shall I have someone bring a fan, Miss Thorne?” He waved a hand, stirring the air in front of her face.
“Shall you not be quite such an arse?” she retorted.
He chuckled lightly. It was an endearing sound, really. And it made her want to laugh with him, but only for a moment. “I will endeavor not to be an arse if you will try your hardest not to erupt into flames at the mere thought of spending the day with me.”
“That wasn’t what happened,” she began, but his smile grew, and she realized that sparring with him was too enjoyable for him. It gave him too much pleasure. “I’m famished, and I might keel over from starvation if you don’t allow me to break my fast soon.”
He motioned her toward the sideboard, where several covered dishes lay. He picked up a p
late for her. “Shall I choose for you?” A servant lifted the lid on the first dish, and the rich smell of cooked, greasy sausage reached her nose. Her stomach revolted. She’d thought she was past this point, but such was not the case, because not only did her stomach revolt, but her head began to swim as well.
“Will you cover that, please?” she bit out, looking away as she breathed in and out through her mouth. Her mouth filled with saliva, and she pressed a hand to her lips. The plate in his hand clattered to the top of the sideboard as he dropped it and reached for her.
“What’s wrong, Claire?” he asked as the servant maneuvered a chair beneath her bottom, which was fortunate, since it happened just as her knees gave way. She flopped into the chair. The nausea was passing, but not quickly enough. Finn shoved her head down between her knees and instructed her to breathe deeply. If she breathed deeply, she might smell that disgusting sausage from across the room and that would just make things worse.
His hands toyed with her hair as he held her head down. It was almost amusing, the position she was in. “You can let me up,” she said, but the sound must have been hidden in her hair or her skirts or something, because he was suddenly kneeling before her, his hard gaze assessing her face as he looked into her eyes.
“What did you say?” he asked. His brows were drawn together, his eyes wary.
“I said, ‘You can let me up.’” She said it louder this time, and he scrambled to help her sit up.
“I’ll never make you wait before feeding you breakfast again,” he declared, a sparkle lighting his eyes. “Does sausage always make you want to cast up your accounts?”
“Not typically,” she admitted. But she certainly couldn’t explain it, could she? “Perhaps I could just get some toast?”
He got to his feet and let a servant fill a plate for her, overflowing with toast. “Jam?” he asked.
“Just toast,” she clarified. She couldn’t stomach jam any better than she could sausage. And the very thought of eggs…
“Just toast,” he repeated as he placed the plate laden with toast at the table and helped her into a chair.
She batted her eyes at the footman. “Could I get some tea, please?”
The man turned to retrieve a cup of tea for her. “Don’t bat your pretty little lashes at my servants,” Finn warned.
He thought she had pretty lashes? “I did no such thing,” she denied. She had, but only because she could. She hadn’t expected Finn to notice. “And they’re not your servants, are they? They’re Robinsworth’s.” That little jab was unnecessary, she knew, but she didn’t like to be told what she could and could not do. Not in the least.
“Right now, they answer to me. Robin hasn’t been home in months.”
“Do you have any idea when he and Sophia will be returning?”
“Nothing definite.”
She hoped it would be longer than a fortnight. She had at least a fortnight, maybe longer, before people would begin to notice. Before she’d have to find somewhere else to stay. Perhaps she could make some female friends by then and find a safe haven.
She picked up a piece of plain toast and nibbled delicately on the edge. She’d learned in the early days of her condition that some things would sit well with her stomach, and some would not.
The butler—she thought his name was Wilkins, but she couldn’t remember for sure—appeared in the doorway, where he stood at attention until Claire elbowed Finn in the side. “What is it, Wilkins?” he said with a heavy sigh.
“I wanted to inquire as to whether or not Miss Thorne will need a maid of her own.”
In other words, he wanted to know how long she would darken their doorstep. “That won’t be necessary,” she began.
But Finn cut her off. “Yes, please. She will need everything one needs when one travels. It appears all her luggage was lost.”