10. Delightful Potatoes

DELIGHTFUL POTATOES

A melia didn't know what to expect when Sally told her she'd be served in a private dining room. Not that she'd never dined thusly at various inns while traveling with her parents, but she'd half-expected to sit alone, perhaps with one of Mr. Beckworth's men standing at the door to ensure she didn't try slipping away.

But when she stepped around Sally, who closed the door behind her, the room wasn't empty.

She was not the only person who'd bathed and donned new apparel.

Although he hadn't shaved, he wore his hair slicked back, still wet from his bath, and the shiny effect matched his onyx eyes. And although he still shunned a cravat and jacket, he'd either changed or laundered his linen shirt, which was crisp and white, but still unbuttoned at the V of his neck. He didn't bother fastening half the buttons on his waistcoat either.

Amelia's heart skipped a beat, however, because he didn't seem unkept—he seemed…

Dashing. Exciting .

As for Amelia, she wasn't wearing any stays, which meant she was comfortable—if not uneasy. Could he tell? The yellow gown Sally decided on fit Amelia as though it had been from her measurements—not the measurements taken over binding stays, but her natural body.

Clasping her hands together at her waist, she met Mr. Beckworth's gaze and the look in his eyes quite literally weakened her knees.

He'd been distant, ignoring her for most of the day, but before she could speak, he'd skirted around the narrow table and pulled the chair out for her to sit. "I wasn't sure you were coming," he said in his gravelly voice. The rough sound surprised her, though she supposed it shouldn't have. Underneath the clean clothing, he was still the same man, after all.

Amelia lowered herself onto the proffered chair, and he slid it up to the table, smooth as butter—better than most footmen, actually.

But he was no footman. She deliberately turned her attention to the window behind him where outside, a few lanterns illuminated a charming little garden.

"This room is lovely," she said. It was the sort of comment one made when facing an uncomfortable silence.

The night before, alone and miserable, she might have believed the sky was falling. Tonight, she was being treated like an honored guest.

Mr. Beckworth dipped his chin, though he still kept his eyes on her.

"Mrs. Billings did well." He took a sip of what looked to be ale. The tankard was nearly empty. How long had he been waiting?

"Mrs. Billings?" Amelia tilted her head.

"She and her husband manage The Goat's Tail Inn. She was asked to replace your gown. She found two, I believe?" Discussing a lady's clothing was dreadfully inappropriate, but Amelia had to remind herself that this was a different world—temporary, most likely—hopefully?

Definitely hopefully.

"Yes. There is another. They are both lovely, thank you." The only man who'd ever purchased her clothing had been her father. She swallowed hard.

If Mr. Beckworth had paid for them, would he have seen the receipts and known she wore nothing beneath it? Not even a chemise.

The candlelight illuminating his very knowing expression left her with no doubt that he knew. Of course he did. It made her feel vulnerable, like during a waltz, when the twirling almost made her lose her balance, right before she was caught up again.

She might as well be running about in her night rail.

Biting her bottom lip, she dropped her gaze to the narrow table. It made the meal feel unusually intimate. If she didn't sit perfectly straight, with her feet tucked under her chair, she could accidentally kick him.

It was almost tempting…

"Supper is served." Two women entered and proceeded to present enough bowls and platters that they nearly covered the entire length of the table. Potatoes, greens, carrots, and some variety of fowl, and other meats covered in gravy. One of the trays featured puddings and pastries.

All the courses, it seemed, were to be served at once.

"I refuse to waste their time," he explained, apparently reading her thoughts. "Requiring my people to run in and out of here all night doesn't make sense when they have paying guests to attend to."

"But some of the dishes will get cold." Amelia voiced the concern automatically. At his frown, she wished the words back.

Aside from a few cursory words, Mr. Beckworth hadn't spoken to her since earlier that morning—not since he'd had to cut her out of her stays, and then locate new clothes for her to wear. That kind of inconvenience was the sort of thing that would irritate her father.

She unfolded her napkin and carefully placed it on her lap but refrained from taking any food for herself. At home, Amelia and her mother waited for her father to begin eating first. He was the head of their family and rarely allowed them to forget it.

"Is this not to your liking?" Mr. Beckworth asked, the tankard hovering at his mouth.

"Oh!" She rose slightly. With no maids present, he must be waiting for her to dish the portions out for him. It was what her father would expect…

But when she went to take his plate, he grasped her wrist.

"You needn't serve me," he said.

Amelia pointedly stared at his hand. His much darker skin made hers look as white as snow. His thumb, which covered her pulse, slowly stroked it. After a few beats of silence, she was free.

She couldn't look at his face.

"Sit," he ordered, and she immediately obeyed.

All of this was so new! Away from her parents and their expectations, she was… more than a little lost. The backs of her eyes stung.

"I'm quite… out of my element," she admitted, not looking at him as she blinked the moisture away. "I am… unfamiliar." Which was putting it mildly.

"Ah…" He leaned back in his chair and his feet scuttled into hers. When she tucked hers further under her chair, he sat up again, narrowing his eyes.

It wasn't the first time she'd caught him watching her like this, as though she was an exotic animal he'd read about but never seen up close.

"I'm not complaining…" Held against her will, she had every right to protest. And yet, ever since he'd tossed those breeches into the carriage, he'd ensured she had everything she might possibly need. "It's just that… All of this… I'm not entirely sure what is expected of me."

His eyes bore right into her. "That's something that's important to you, meeting the expectations of others." It wasn't really a question.

"Of course."

"Why?"

Amelia frowned. "Well, because… One is expected to." Even as the words left her mouth, she realized the absurdity of her answer. "We all must live by some kind of rules. Rules ensure order. They keep us civil."

Before she even finished, he was already laughing. Amelia felt herself blushing, embarrassed despite herself. Really, she ought not to care what he thought of her at all, beyond preserving her own safety while she was forced to share his company; he was a criminal, and she should be glad to never see him again once this was all over.

"Civility is overrated," he answered. "And order is only an illusion."

He scooped and forked large piles of various offerings onto his plate. Amelia allowed herself a spoonful of beans and three small pieces of chicken.

Out of habit, of course. Ladies were moderate in all things.

One of the servants returned, and they both fell silent while the woman poured two tall glasses of wine, one for each of them.

"Leave the bottle," Mr. Beckworth ordered, not unkindly.

By the time they were alone again, Amelia had rolled his words around in her mind. Every single aspect of society evolved around rules. She might have resumed the argument, but his knees bumped up against hers, sending her thoughts in a thousand different directions.

This time, rather than flinch from the inappropriate contact, Amelia… allowed it. Was he doing it intentionally? Did he even know he was doing it?

He gestured toward the stew and slice of bread. "Don't mind me, have as much as you wish. You could use some more flesh on your bones."

"I—what?"

"You asked what I expect." He said. "I do not expect you to starve yourself."

Nine dishes had been placed before them: gravies, meats, puddings, breads and vegetables. If she'd been dining at home, one course at a time, she'd have allowed herself one bite of each, knowing her mother was keeping track, and knowing each bite would make her corset a little tighter.

But her mother wasn't hear. Nor was her corset.

Mr. Beckworth was preoccupied with his own food, so she tentatively added a flaky filet of fish, bread, potatoes and asparagus onto her plate. Feeling a little naughty, she forked one of the small potatoes and delicately bit into it.

It was so tender! Buttery, with just the right amount of salt.

If she wasn't a lady, she would have moaned.

"Those are grown on an island," he said. "Fertilized with seaweed." His focus remained on his food, but his mouth quirked up a little—as though he approved.

"They're delicious." Her voice came out breathy—likely because the potatoes tasted so good. Another bite, and she couldn't be sure, but she might have, in fact, closed her eyes while she chewed and actually moaned a little.

She caught herself, however, when she felt his stare.

"Mrs. Billings knows her way around a kitchen," he said.

"Yes." Clearing her throat, Amelia moved on to the fish, which was equally delectable. Honestly, she'd have thought she'd never eaten real food before.

"Go on," he urged, nudging her under the table.

Doing her best to ignore that his knee pressed between hers, Amelia's training required they make polite conversation. Also, he still hadn't explained what he expected from her.

"I like to know my role, if you don't mind," she said. "Otherwise I won't know how to act." Was she a prisoner or a guest?

"This isn't one of your Seasons," he said, "I think you care too much about other people's opinions."

Her first thought was to take offence, but…

He might be right.

"Perhaps."

He paused, the lip of his tankard hovering at his mouth. He'd obviously expected her to be disagreeable.

"It's just that," Amelia persisted, "It would help to have some idea as to what you expect from me."

He lowered his drink and leaned forward. She did her best to keep her expression indifferent, and yet, every time he shifted, she felt little sparks of heat where his knees touched hers.

"I'll tell you what I don't expect. I do not expect you to serve me. I don't expect you to worry about eating too much, or making proper conversation, or…" His gaze shifted to her decolletage. "Wearing an undergarment that impedes your breathing."

Fighting the urge to cross her arms over her breasts, Amelia dipped her chin.

"It isn't usually a problem," she said. There was nothing she could do to keep heat from flooding her neck and cheeks.

"The bloody thing is dangerous." He turned his attention back to his food.

She could hardly argue, especially after her painful experience the night before. And, truth be told, she was feeling more comfortable than she had in… forever.

"Perhaps." This time he didn't seem as surprised when she echoed her earlier agreement. "But can't you see why I'm feeling confused?" He was being somewhat reasonable right now, and although she didn't want to change the mood of their meal, she needed to address the proverbial elephant in the room. "I have no idea why I'm here. Or what any of this is about. You've promised not to hurt me, but you have knives, and guns…"

She took a sip of wine as though she hadn't just confronted him. She even managed to keep her hand from shaking.

The shadows from the candles emphasized the stern shadow of his jaw while the flames highlighted his slick black hair.

" Touché ," he said, "All you need to know is that I intend to protect you. As long as you do as you're told, you've nothing to fear."

He had mentioned this before. Protecting her. More than once. It was an odd statement from a man who'd quite literally abducted her.

"But I'm a prisoner, am I not?" Was this a fair question? Before he challenged it, she continued. "I've been treated fairly today, but I am not here by choice." None of this made sense.

What was she missing?

His lips turned up in a smirk. "You were traveling to London by choice, then? Were you lying when you said you were all too happy to forgo this year's Season?"

"I wasn't lying." But this was different. "My father has my best interests in mind." It was the only argument she had against his logic.

"Whereas I am concerned about your safety." It was an odd thing to say. What did he mean? Weren't they the same thing?

Amelia just shook her head. Her father believed himself smarter than everyone else, as did her brother, and almost every other gentleman she'd ever met.

She ought to be accustomed to this kind of blatant arrogance.

Still, she'd thought Mr. Beckworth was different.

Perhaps it was simply inherent in maleness to see oneself as knowing better than everyone else.

She took another bite of the fish and was temporarily distracted by the flavor, which was nearly enough to make her forget where she was.

If not who she was with.

"You like it?" He didn't sound arrogant now.

Amelia glanced up from her plate and nodded.

He intrigued her like no man ever had. Once he'd realized her stays were bothering her, he'd berated himself repeatedly. He'd then left her alone in the coach and avoided her for hours, which implied that he had been annoyed.

But he'd apologized. He was, in fact, the only man who had ever done that. She believed he'd meant it sincerely.

Still baffled, she changed the subject. "How many inns do you actually own?" Perhaps if she could learn more about Mr. Beckworth as a person, his history and motivations, she might untangle some of the answers to her questions.

The suitors she was used to had always enjoyed talking about themselves predominately, but this man was quite the opposite.

"A dozen. Give or take a few."

She leaned back. "Did you inherit them?"

Barely glancing up from his food, he snorted. "Do I look like I'm the sort who would have had wealthy parents?

"I'm not sure. I don't know anything about you." Since they were being blunt, she added, "Except that you're not above violence to take something you want. And that some people like to refer to you as the King—which is treason, by the way."

He shrugged and his knee moved, stirring an odd friction. She found herself welcoming those sparks of heat now. And this time, when he held her gaze, she had no doubt that he knew .

He knew exactly what he was doing. And Amelia wasn't fighting him. Not like she ought to be…

She found herself feeling more curious, fascinated, actually.

There was something… vibrant about this man. While doing something so mundane as eating, he emanated a charged sort of energy. It reminded her of the static in the air seconds before lightning struck.

"I never met my father." His admission came abruptly. "And my mother made a living on her back. So no, there was no inheritance for me." When he said the word inheritance , it sounded like a curse.

On her back. She was a whore!

"Where is your mother now?" Amelia asked.

He didn't miss a beat. "Dead."

"I'm so very sorry for your loss." Because really, what else could she say?

His response to her sympathy was to cock a single brow before biting into a piece of his bread.

Wickedly again. Almost as though he was doing it for her benefit.

"Who raised you, then?" Her questions were personal, intrusive, but she couldn't help but ask. "Who took care of you?"

"I did." His expression was one of indifference, not showing any indication of self-pity.

Amelia furrowed her brow. That couldn't be right. There were places to address the needs of orphans, funded by charities which her mother and other ladies took great pains to promote. Amelia knew this because she had attended more fundraisers than she could remember—lavish affairs with champagne and cakes.

But Mr. Beckworth simply shook his head.

"Where did you sleep? How did you eat? Why didn't you go to a foundling hospital?" Amelia pictured a miniature version of the man sitting across from her—a thin little boy with soulful black eyes, black hair, and tawny skin. Innocent and vulnerable.

The eyes staring back at her weren't innocent, but almost haunted. Had she gone too far with her questions?

"Those raised in foundling hospitals end up dying in the workhouse," he said. "I took my chances on the docks."