“It was hardly self-pity, Miss Trewlove.” He didn’t want to envision her sitting alone during meals, standing at the edge of a garden, not invited into a game of tag. Although perhaps whatever she’d endured had motivated her to invite him to join her tonight. He was beginning to feel grateful she had. She was without guile and he found it refreshing.

Embarrassed to have shared such intimate and personal memories and thoughts with a stranger, Fancy nodded toward the book he’d placed on the table. “I’d promised you could read if you took the chair.”

“So you did.”

Striving to make sense of the words in her book was proving to be an exercise in futility. Generally, she had no trouble at all blocking out any distractions when she became lost in a book, but her attention wasn’t usually snagged by a gentleman whose stories she wished to learn—for surely, he had stories to tell. He looked to be on the younger side of thirty. Where had he come from before landing here? How did he earn wages?

With her return, Becky set a bowl of shepherd’s pie, a piece of linen, and a spoon in front of each of them before rushing off to see to other customers. Mr. Sommersby set his book aside and, in unison, they draped their linen napkins across their laps. He gathered up some pie, and she fought against watching his mouth close over the spoon, but it was a battle she lost, imagining those lips closing over hers. Whatever was wrong with her to allow such naughty thoughts to travel through her mind? Averting her gaze, she concentrated on her own meal.

“Difficult to read whilst eating,” he said quietly.

She usually managed it quite well, especially in her youth, much to her mum’s dismay since it wasn’t the way that proper ladies were to occupy their time at the table. With conversation, they were to involve themselves in other people’s lives, listen attentively, gleaning bits of information in order to gain an understanding of the person, build an image of his or her character. With Mr. Sommersby she was failing miserably, which didn’t bode well for her entrée into Society and judging the man who might ask for her hand.

“I’m a bit surprised,” he continued, “Mick Trewlove’s sister would take her meal here and not dine with him in his lodgings at the hotel.”

Her brother had an office where he conducted business and a suite of private rooms on the top floor. Mr. Sommersby would have become aware of those facts when he let his residence, since he’d have had to visit the office to sign his lease agreement. “I wasn’t in the mood to be put through my paces,” she answered honestly.

He arched a dark brow in question.