Page 70 of Seducing a Stranger
He wasn’t particularly hungry, not for food, at any rate. But it suddenly became imperative that he provide her sustenance.
Over the past fortnight, his cook had given up on satisfying Prudence’s increasingly obscure gastronomic whims. Which was just as well because his wife, being of the upper classes, had never much had the opportunity to sample London’s culinary delights. Ladies were not allowed by some ballocks code of superior conduct to eat in public houses or dine at restaurants or clubs.
The working class, however, rarely shared such compunctions.
Morley found himself often hurrying home from Scotland Yard at the day’s end, eager to garner a report of just what madcap craving would decide their supper. As soon as his carriage pulled into the mews, she’d sweep out in her pelisse and hat, and announce something like, “Your child is demanding salt. And onions, I think. Just mouthfuls of flavor and sauce.”
“Onions, you say?”
“Mmhmm.” She’d nodded rapturously. “And cracking large chunks of succulent meat.”
“My child is an unapologetic carnivore?” he’d asked with a lifted brow.
She’d cocked her head and looked up to the side as if listening, before revealing. “Undetermined…I believe that last requirement is all mine.”
That conversation had prompted him to drive her to Manwaring Street, where East Indian bazaars and spice markets magically unfurled with the dawn alongside eateries serving flavorful curries and savory meats and cheeses roasted in tandoori ovens.
They’d eaten with their hands, sprawled on cushions like ancient royalty whilst tucked away in a quarter of a city where they might have been any avant-garde couple. After, she’d insisted upon a constitutional back through the evening market where she’d purchased a pair of earrings and wildly impractical shoes.
The next night had called for cabbage and fish of all things, so he’d introduced her to Russian cuisine. The night after that, she’d given the rather innocuous request for lamb, however the precedent had been set. Morley had whisked her to a Greek establishment where lively men had danced to rousing music, delighting her to no end.
It alarmed him how much enjoyment he gleaned from these outings of theirs. How, for entire hours, he’d forget everything that threatened their future happiness and lose himself in nothing more extraordinary than a conversation.
His wife held little in the way of personal prejudices and was endlessly curious about, and appreciative of, the traditions and people he introduced her to. She’d a rare gift for observation, carefully and cannily picking out the subtleties and nuances of culture whilst doing her best to not offend. She never remarked upon the perceived class of the neighborhoods to which he’d taken her, nor did she make anyone she met feel like less than the most interesting person with which she’d ever held a conversation.
All of her attention was absorbed by whomever was speaking, and he noticed she’d the kind and genuine way about her that garnered them little extras of gratitude wherever they went.
It was why he’d dared to bring her to St. Dismas. Because this was the floor upon which he and Caroline had often slept in the winter. In the borough that’d whelped him and abandoned him.
He’d not been to the parish since before his wedding, and he knew Vicar Applewhite would be bereft he’d not been invited to the wedding.
They’d almost made their way down the aisle as the old blind priest stopped to bid every family a personal farewell, and to cover his anxiety, Morley leaned down to ask Prudence, “What does the little fiend crave for luncheon, I wonder?”
She made a pensive sound. “Do you remember three days ago when we sampled those sautéed Chinese noodles?” She swallowed before continuing, and he’d the notion she’d salivated.
“I do.”
“Somethinglikethat, but not exactly that.”
Instead of clarifying, he allowed her to work through the conundrum, having learned that she’d arrive at a specific flavor and texture eventually, and his job would then be to provide it.
“Butter,” she finally announced. “There must be butter. And… maybe cheese.”
“Pasta?”
Her mouth fell open and her eyes twinkled like sunlight on the South Sea. “Pasta,” she breathed. “Ingenious suggestion.”
“Angelo’s on the Strand, it is,” he decided, realizing that his own stomach grumbled emptily at the thought. “Francesco serves this white wine and butter dish with garlic and scallions—”
She grasped his arm with undue dramatics. “Cease tormenting me or I’ll expire before we arrive.”
He adopted a sly, teasing smile. “I suppose you don’t want to hear about the fresh loaves of—”
“Morley?” Vicar Applewhite turned his face in their direction, the tufts of his hair sticking out in a riot of copper-grey as his grin unfurled a gather of teeth yellowed with age. “Morley, my boy, that you?”
Morley took the blindly offered hand and pressed an envelope into it. “Vicar,” he said. “I’m sorry I’m late this month. There’s extra in there. Just have Thomas count it out and he can take some home to Lettie and Harry, as I know they’ve likely covered expenses in my absence.”
“You know them well.” The envelope disappeared into voluminous robes with the swiftness that bordered on sleight of hand. “I’m sure you had good reason and…well, you’re not beholden to our upkeep.”
