Sawdust dry. Wandering-the-desert dry. He paused for a moment. Hadn’t he been wandering the desert thirsty a few days earlier? He took a bite of his entirely unpalatable toast. He’d never seen a desert in his life, and likely never would, but as far as geographical habitats went, it did seem to be offering a multitude of similes lately.

“Why are you smiling?” Honoria asked curiously.

“Am I? It was a sad, sad smile, I assure you.” He regarded his toast. “Did you truly have ham?” And then, even though he knew he didn’t want to know the answer: “Was there pudding?”

He looked at her. She wore a very guilty expression.

“Chocolate?” he whispered.

She shook her head.

“Berry? Ca—Oh, Lord, did Cook make treacle tart?”

No one made treacle tart like Fensmore’s cook.

“It was delicious,” she admitted, with one of those amazingly happy sighs reserved for the memories of the very best of desserts. “It was served with clotted cream and strawberries.”

“Is there any left?” he asked dolefully.

“I should think there must be. It was served in a huge—Wait a moment.” Her eyes narrowed, and she speared him with a suspicious stare. “You’re not asking me to steal you a piece, are you?”

“Would you?” He hoped his face looked as pathetic as his voice. He really needed her to pity him.

“No!” But her lips were pressing together in an obvious attempt not to laugh. “Treacle tart is not an appropriate food for the sickbed.”

“I don’t see why not,” he replied. With utmost honesty.

“Because you’re supposed to have broth. And calf’s-foot jelly. And cod liver oil. Everyone knows that.”

He forced his stomach not to turn at the mention. “Have any of those delicacies ever made you feel better?”

“No, but I don’t think that’s the point.”

“How is it possibly not the point?”

Her lips parted for a quick reply, but then she went quite comically still. Her eyes tipped up and looked off to the left, almost as if she were searching her mind for a suitable retort. Finally, she said, with deliberate slowness, “I don’t know.”

“Then you’ll steal me a piece?” He gave her his best smile. His best I-almost-died-so-how-can-you-deny-me smile. Or at least that’s how he hoped it appeared. The truth was, he wasn’t a very accomplished flirt, and it might very well have come across as an I-am-mildly-deranged-so-it’s-in-all-of-our-best-interests-if-you-pretend-to-agree-with-me smile.

There was really no way to know.

“Do you have any idea how much trouble I could get into?” Honoria asked. She leaned forward in a furtive manner, as if someone might actually be spying on them.

“Not very much,” he replied. “It’s my house.”

“That matters very little when put up against the collective wrath of Mrs. Wetherby, Dr. Winters, and my mother.”

He shrugged.

“Marcus . . .”

But she had no coherent protest beyond that. So he said, “Please.”