Firelight by Kristen Callihan

with endless bounty, yet no one with whom to share it,” he finished, handing her a small silver bowl filled with oyster crackers.
    “But I could not eat all of this.”
    “Well, I certainly hope you shall try a little. Careful consideration has gone into the planning of this meal,” he said lightly. “I shall be thoroughly put out should you waste away from lack of effort.”
    “Wish to fatten me up, do you?”
    “Mmm.” Gray eyes skimmed over her form. “How does the fairy tale go?” He rested an elbow on his chair arm. “Ah yes, I have lured you into my luscious house of candy and gingerbread to tempt you with sugared delights. And when you are nice and plump, I shall gobble you up.”
    A flush of tangible heat washed like the tide over her skin. There was only light laughter in his tone yet the force of his gaze made her turn away. Stomach fluttering, she tried to look stern. “I suppose you have forgotten that Gretel outwitted the old witch in the end and roasted her alive.”
    He chuckled, a deep rumbling of thunder before a storm. “How very gruesome.”
    “Yes, quite,” Miranda agreed with a smile. Ah, but he was charming. Unexpected, but decidedly so. “Very well, I shall do my part. Only what of the rest?”
    “The servants shall have it.” He looked at her with some amusement. “Does that appease you?”
    “It does.”
    The creamy soup, ripe with plump oysters and golden puddles of butter, tasted like heaven on a spoon. She nearly groaned with pleasure and forced herself to eat slowly, aware that Lord Archer watched with rapt interest.
    “Wine?” He poured with the deft ease of a seasoned servant.
    “Is this how we shall normally dine?” The service was like nothing she’d seen before. While resembling a familiar meal served a la française, there were no removes. Everything was simply on the table, including a large platter of fruit, overflowing with velvety figs, glossy pears, and crisp apples, cut open and saturated with rich color.
    “No.” A touch of humor lifted his voice as his eyes continued their watch. “Call this…”—his hand waved toward the table—“a bit of fancy on my part. I wanted you to have a wedding feast of sorts.”
    She lowered her wineglass, her gaze catching his, and a strange sensation of longing rushed through her. Perhaps he felt it too, for he looked away and toyed with a silver salt cellar with his long, be-gloved fingers. A footman entered as if by magic, whisked away her bowl, and left while Lord Archer lifted more lids.
    “We needn’t stand on ceremony,” he said. “I’ve never understood why one must have soup, then fish, then fowl or meat.”
    She had to laugh. “Or food that isn’t too highly spiced. At least not for ladies.”
    He laughed as well. “Indeed. And all very properly served. Why not eat what we want when we want?” He took her plate. “Although, now that I’ve had a look, might I suggest the sole? My cook is quite gifted, I have to say.”
    “Yes, please.”
    “Food is the one thing I did not miss when I was away from England.” He handed her the plate and sat. “I should think I’d find myself much aggrieved should I have to partake in a proper English dinner any time soon.”
    “Is our cuisine really so awful?”
    “When you’ve sampled what the rest of the world has to offer, yes. Although we do breakfast spectacularly well.”
    Miranda glanced at her husband. A person’s skin, she realized just then, was an indispensable clue as to one’s true age. As Lord Archer’s attire revealed none of his, she could only guess at his age. His voice was of no help; rich and rumbling, it could belong to a man aged twenty-five to sixty. Her eyes trailed over the lean, muscular body of a man in his prime. With such a physique, he could not be older than forty-five. But the quick, light way in which he moved gave the impression of youth. In his thirties, perhaps? It must be so, as he was too much in command of himself to be a