Page 31 of Dalliances & Devotion (The Truitts 2)

“It isn’t a gown. It’s a corset.” She resisted a smirk. “There are matching knickers too. Short ones. With ribbons.”

Victory, after all, started early.

* * *

An hour later, Amalia’s stomach growled and her body swayed as she stumbled her way into the main section of her car. She’d have to eat first next time or learn to apply cosmetics without full arm movements faster, because Meg was never getting near her brows again.

Tweezers were not the woman’s forte. Though at least Meg apologized.

She rubbed the still smarting skin, shuddering for the poor soldiers the woman operated on. Hopefully the patches she filled in with charcoal would grow back. If only tattooing was permitted under Jewish law. Though tattooed enhancement on the face...that’d make an interesting column. Had any one ever tried that? It would save time, but take a bit of the fun out of experimenting and changing with the season.

That was the best part about fashion: everything changed, but at predictable intervals, like dances at a party. Amalia nodded to herself. Excellent analogy—definitely going in a column. In the column, that she’d dictate to someone, once she got the chance to ask.

Her innards lurched. Fine, food now, work later. And...oh. That smell, that delicious, rich, dark, nutty smell. “Is that coffee?” She staggered over to the table and slid into a seat across from David. “Please tell me that’s coffee and not tea or chocolate.”

He raised his head from his papers, a cup still in front of his lips. “It’s coffee.”

“Thank god.” She grabbed the pot, poured with her only slightly shaking left hand, and near moaned as the molten bitterness hit her tongue, waking her insides.

“Don’t you take it with anything?” He stirred whatever was in his cup with a small silver spoon that clanked against the china.

Was he mad? She sipped again, inhaling, and closed her eyes for a moment. “And ruin the burn? Never. Besides, can you imagine anything sweet with eggs and warm bread?”

“Well, there is this thing you Americans call ‘marmalade.’” He displayed his own half-eaten wedge, slathered with orange.

She wrinkled her nose. “Bah, sweet goes with sweet, savory with savory and all of them in my stomach right now, provided nothing bursts.” She placed a hand on her stomach. Another rumble. She’d need something soon or she’d swoon.

With her blasted left hand, she laid a piece of toast on her plate and brought over the butter. Amalia dipped her knife and the equally blasted bread slipped and nothing would spread. She’d get more movement in her shoulder soon, right?

Consarn it. She balled her first and reached out—ow. Wrong hand. Again.

“Does that happen frequently?” David took both the knife and food from her and accomplished the task in mere seconds, handing her buttered bread back with a small smirk. Show-off. “I mean the bursting? Not the clumsiness, because I have eaten with you before and I know you can’t blame everything on your injury.”

“When I was growing, there were lots of adjustments and remaking of gowns. Caging helps. ‘A good foundation is the backbone of any outfit.’” She took a rather unladylike bite and nearly swooned again because mercy, she’d needed food. She swallowed. Twice.

“Did you just quote yourself?” David had his teacup over his mouth, but porcelain vibrated worse that the train.

She blushed. “Well, what did you expect? It fit.”

“Naturally.” And his face was vibrating too and scarlet.

“Oh, come on. Just laugh. You know you want to.”

And he did and she did, because it was just

too nice. And pleasant and natural.

After they got ahold of themselves, that settled into an amiable silence. Well, except for her chewing and a few less than discreet grunts of pleasure, but buttery eggs and buttery toast after a missed dinner...what could be better?

Like this was what they did every morning. Even though it wasn’t.

Finally, after she’d made a few more inappropriate sounds and tapped her napkin to her lips, only wincing a little, David tented his fingers and gave her one of his intense stares. “So. About yesterday...”

Amalia near choked. There were two tracks the conversation train could take—the kiss or the stabbing. Hopefully, David meant the injury, because though uncomfortable, it was preferable as it made the blood drain from her face, instead of rushing to a whole series of embarrassing places.

“I suppose they haven’t caught him yet, but they have a suspect right?” She flipped her hair. Wrong hand and she was wearing her favorite ring and...stuck. So very stuck and pulling her bandages...and ow.

“No, you’re still in danger.” He traced a crease in the snow-white tablecloth with his pointer finger.

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