She turned her head as if to listen to the caress of his thumb against her palm and he dared to gather her closer lest she mistake the impact she was having on him. Rex had learned years ago to control his urges. There was no controlling his reactions, though, not to her, not this time.

And what a relief that was, what a pleasure and a joy to be simply a man in good health enjoying a kiss with a woman who desired him for his own sake.

Eleanora eased back and pressed her forehead to his chest. “The soup will get cold.”

So plaintive and paltry, that display of common sense, so dear. “While everything else threatens to go up in flames.”

“I hadn’t planned on…” She gave him a squeeze, then stepped away. “I miscalculated.” She patted his cravat, which was doubtless thoroughly wrinkled.

For her to admit a miscalculation probably took as much fortitude as for Rex to admit his ledgers were a disgrace. He wanted desperately to kiss her again, to toss her on the bed and romp away the rest of this cold, snowy day.

Even more than that, he wanted to banish the uncertainty from her gaze. She had for once allowed herself to indulge in a pleasurable impulse and her usual self-possession had deserted her. He could not allow her to doubt herself, could not be the reason Eleanora Hatfield’s composure faltered.

“If you miscalculated,” he said, “the error was harmless and of no moment. I brought you pepper pot soup with fresh bread and butter, a few slices of cheese and two apples. A pair of French chocolates might have stowed away among the offerings. For the cat, there’s a bit of gammon.”

Only a man who’d complimented clumsy young women on their dancing and clapped heartily at botched sonatas by the dozen could have offered that speech with such breezy—and false—good cheer.

Eleanora began to unpack their meal. “The cutlery is in the top drawer of the sideboard. Now that the food is here, I’m famished.”

She was also blinking as if cinders afflicted both eyes.

“Eleanora?”

“Mrs. Hatfield, please. You even brought more wine. Very generous of you, Your Grace.”

Your Grace. How he hated that appellation from her now, but he was beginning to understand the paths her arrows of emotion traveled and how to dodge their flights. She needed her dignity, her sense of order and predictability just as he needed to nip out to Ambledown, go for mad gallops, and wear boots to a solitary dinner in the library from time to time.

“Give me the gammon,” he said. “I’ll feed the tiger lest she disturb our feast with her growling.”

A single tear slid down Eleanora’s cheek. She caught it on the back of her wrist. “Voltaire loves gammon.”