“One of the footmen gave chase.” She looked over her shoulder toward the open door. “I think he might have thought I was a thief, although really, if I were coming to burgle Fensmore, I’d hardly start with treacle tart.”

“Really?” he asked, his mouth full of heaven. “It’s exactly where I’d start.”

She broke off a piece and popped it in her mouth. “Oh, it is good,” she sighed. “Even without the strawberries and cream.”

“I can think of nothing better,” he said with a happy sigh. “Except, perhaps, chocolate cake.”

She perched on the side of the bed and took another small piece. “Sorry,” she said, swallowing before she continued, “I didn’t know where to get forks.”

“I don’t care,” he said. He didn’t. He was just so damned happy to be eating real food, with real flavor. That required real chewing. Why people thought that clear liquids were the key to recovering from a fever he would never know.

He began to fantasize about cottage pie. Dessert was marvelous, but he was going to need some real sustenance. Beef mince. Sliced potatoes, lightly crisped from the oven. He could almost taste it.

He looked over at Honoria. Somehow he did not think she was going to be able to sneak that out of the kitchen in a tea towel.

Honoria reached for another piece of the tart. “What are you reading?” she asked.

“Miss Butterworth and the, er . . .” He looked down at the book, which lay pages down and open on his bed. “Mad Baron, apparently.”

“Really?” She looked stunned.

“I couldn’t bring myself to crack open Reflections and Illuminations of a Small Unpopulated Area of Scotland.”

“What?”

“This one,” he said, handing her the book.

She looked down and he noticed that her eyes had to move quite a distance to take in the entirety of the title. “It looked quite descriptive,” she said with a little shrug. “I thought you would enjoy it.”

“Only if I was worried that the fever hadn’t done me in,” he said with a snort.

“I think it sounds interesting.”

“You should read it, then,” he said with a gracious wave. “I shan’t miss it.”

Her lips pressed together peevishly. “Did you look at anything else I brought you?”

“Actually, no.” He held up Miss Butterworth. “This was really quite intriguing.”

“I can’t believe you’re enjoying it.”

“You’ve read it, then?”

“Yes, but—”

“Did you finish it?”

“Yes, but—”

“Did you enjoy it?”

She did not seem to have a ready reply, so he took advantage of her distraction and pulled the tea towel closer. Another few inches and the treacle tart would be entirely out of her reach.

“I did enjoy it,” she finally said, “although I found some parts to be implausible.”

He flipped over the book and peered down. “Really?”