Carola Dunn Read Free

energy had been spent on the search for work. How close to despair she had often come! How close to despair she was now, for even if tonight’s scheme succeeded, the success would be no more than a temporary remedy.
    She nearly explained, but she could not bear that Lord Ashe should suppose her to be making a deliberate play for sympathy. So she smiled, with an effort, and said she had heard there was to be a balloon ascension from Hyde Park tomorrow which she hoped to attend.
    “I trust the weather will cooperate,” his lordship observed. “In my experience, these events are postponed as often as not. Ah, here is our supper. Will you be seated, ma’am?”
    He held her chair for her, facing the fire not the couch to her relief--relief spoiled when she realized his place was laid adjacent to her rather than opposite. She tucked her feet back under her chair for fear of colliding with his ankles.
    However, the savoury odour rising dizzyingly from the tureen before her drove all fears of the baron’s expectations from her mind.
    Whether to eat her fill was the only remaining doubt. She glanced calculatingly from the dishes crowding the table top to the figure of her host. Broad shoulders and powerful chest tapered to slim waist and flanks: Lord Ashe did not look as though he was given to overindulgence in food. There would be plenty left whatever inroads she made, and she would regret not having taken full advantage of the bountiful supply should he fail to fall in with her plans.
    Turtle soup; asparagus to dip in melted butter; turbot in lobster sauce; cutlets of spring lamb with minted new peas and new potatoes; a fricassee of chicken and mushrooms; stuffed fillet of veal in a pastry case--Lissa sampled everything. She had never eaten such well-seasoned, deliciously sauced, beautifully garnished dishes before.
    Lord Ashe watched with an air of amused tolerance. Recalling Minette’s jest about his wishing to feed her up, Lissa almost giggled aloud. He himself ate little, though emptying his glass with some regularity. Lissa took a sip or two of wine after a rather salty mouthful. She did not care for the taste, so was not tempted to drink more, despite his lordship’s occasional gentle urging.
    He was a charming host. Besides keeping her plate filled, as promised, he made her laugh with a droll review of the Coburg Theatre’s melodrama, ballet, and harlequinade, always exempting her own performance from his wit.
    He went on to tell fascinating stories of the London theatre world, of Sheridan and Byron, of Kemble, Siddons, and Kean, and the great soprano Catalani.
    “You ought to take singing lessons,” he said, “if you wish to advance in your profession. I daresay I could arrange for one of the best teachers to accept you as a pupil. Ah, you have reached the sweets stage, I see. Try one of these petit puits d’amour .” He reached for a plate of jam tarts, the crimped puff paste circles glazed to a golden shine around the jewel-bright centres.
    Lissa took one. “ Petit puits ...?” she asked, nibbling.
    “You don’t speak French? No, of course you don’t.” Lord Ashe looked a trifle disconcerted.
    On the point of informing him that, though ignorant of French, she read Greek, Lissa held her tongue. It was bound to lead to unwanted curiosity, and he already sensed something smoky about her antecedents, or he would not have unconsciously expected her to know French.
    Before she could think of some way to distract him from the subject, Lord Ashe pushed back his chair and took her hand in his. At the touch of his lean, warm fingers, a shock ran up her arm. She froze.
    She had almost forgotten his purpose in treating her to supper.
    “ Puits d’amour , ‘little wells of love.’“ His burning gaze moved from her eyes to linger on her lips, then down to her bosom. “I am eager to discover what you have hidden behind that Puritan costume, my Lissa. If you have eaten your fill, it is past time to plumb the Well