“Not yet,” commanded James. He had to speak to her.
“No, I must.” Cecelia turned and rushed out.
He started to go after her, then conceded that he couldn’t settle matters between them while chasing her through the streets.
“Mam reckons a big roast would last us four days,” said Jen. “With a stew at the end iffen we get more taters and carrots.”
He would not be angry. Hadn’t he just vowed as much? Or at least he would not show it. He could manage that. “Tell her yes.”
Jen’s eyes shone. “I never had a roast beef before.”
“Then you are in for a treat.” James made a shooing motion, and the girl ran off. He went to relieve his feelings by chucking some large items out the window.
Eleven
Though Cecelia sat in her familiar drawing room, hearing the usual scratching of her aunt’s pen in her notebook and occasional carriage passing in the street, her mind and heart were not there. They remained some streets away with James and his kiss. She could think of nothing else. His touch, his manner, his passion—these were all that she’d dreamed of. She felt that the heat in his eyes had been tinged with tenderness. Might she dare to love him?
Or, that was a silly question. Rather, might she admit that she did? Because the issue was beyond dispute. Her feelings were stronger than ever. His touch had ignited them.
She’d hidden her love in self-defense to keep from being hurt, but deception was becoming impossible. When she saw him again, she would want to kiss him again. And more than that. He seemed so changed. Perhaps they could…
“Lawks!” cried Aunt Valeria.
Cecelia jumped and turned to stare at her.
“I’ve spoken to you three times, and you have not answered,” said her aunt. “What is the matter?”
“I was thinking.”
“Indeed? I approve of cogitation. What weighty matter occupies you this morning?”
“I was…wondering about…” She certainly couldn’t speak of melting kisses. And she didn’t want to mention James, since all paths led from him to…melting kisses. Only one subject was guaranteed to divert Aunt Valeria. “About, ah, whether bees can…fly in the rain.”
This earned her a look of blank disbelief. Well deserved, but she was launched on this course now. “I have seen raindrops almost as large as their entire bodies,” she went on.
“True.” Her aunt’s thoughts were being pulled into her favorite topic. Cecelia could almost see it happening, like the ineluctable pull of gravity.
“They fly easily enough in light rain,” she said. “Though from my observations I would say they don’t like it. Well, who can blame them? A heavy rain is another matter. A very large drop is capable of breaking a bee’s wing.”
“Goodness.”
“There is nothing good about it if they are caught out during a downpour. They must scramble then!” Aunt Valeria nodded emphatically. “Individual bees have been known to shelter under large leaves.”
“That’s clever.”
“Of course.” Clever was the nature of bees, her expression said. And apparently not the nature of nieces, it implied.
Cecelia was groping for something more to say when her father walked into the drawing room.
This was practically unprecedented. Papa’s daily routine encompassed his study, the dining room, and his bedchamber. He might be seen in the corridors or on the stairs between these stations, but almost never anywhere else.
“I came to speak to you about the roast of pork at dinner last night,” he said without preamble. He fixed Cecelia with a censorious glare. “It was not up to your usual standard. One might even say tough as old boots.”
This explained his visit. Food and philosophy were her father’s joint obsessions. Cecelia could not have said which was the more important to him. “It was rather,” she acknowledged. “I did suggest a ragout, you know, because the joint seemed…”
He waved this excuse aside. “No dinner is complete without a decent roast. I trust this lapse will not be repeated. I would rather not send a reprimand to Cook.”
“Please don’t, Papa.” That would cause an uproar and upset the household for days.