Page 35 of A Contracted Spouse for the Prizefighter

“Why not?” he replied affably. “You do not … er … regret the decision to cut it off?”

“Not at all,” she assured him. “It is so much easier to take care of now. I don’t have to spend hours washing and waiting for it to dry. Really it only takes a fraction of the time it used to, and my head feels so much lighter and freer without the length.”

Clem, who had always thought hair a woman’s crowning beauty, was a little perturbed but gallantly strove to hide the fact. “I see.”

“Would you like a closer look at it?” she asked, reaching up for her ringlets.

“No,” Clem said quickly. “Let us preserve the illusion. Shall we go down to the restaurant? I’m ravenous.”

Dora was quiet on their way downstairs, and it occurred to Clem that he might not have been as smooth with his deflection as he had intended. Once they had been seated at a table in the chandeliered dining saloon, he set about making reparations and soon had her smiling again.

“I doubt your poor brother and Mr. Allsop will be partaking of such a fine luncheon,” he remarked clicking his tongue when their elegant repast was laid out before them.

Dora went off in a coughing fit, which she smothered with a napkin, before turning toward him with watery eyes. “I have left them a very fine lunch, as it happens,” she protested. “A cold collation which I have left under covers. Bread and butter,” she listed, “stewed pears, a goodish wedge of Shropshire blue cheese, some biscuits which are only a little stale, and a big cold pudding. The pudding,” she added with satisfaction, “was so large that it should last them for days.”

“Ah,” said Clem glancing down with disfavor at the delicate tea sandwiches which he could eat in one bite. “You did not explain there was cold pudding. That of course makes all the difference.” The fillings of the sandwiches looked to be insubstantial too, he observed: salmon, cucumber, fluffy egg salad, and cream cheese. Next to these was an elegant plate of iced petit fours, a bowl of mixed roasted nuts, and glazed fruits served on fancy china. God, he would waste away on this fare!

Dora’s eyes narrowed at him. “I can tell you are being facetious, Mr. Dabney,” she said archly, “but as a matter of fact, I have had a breakthrough in the kitchen. It turns out that baked puddings are my strong suit. Sago, tapioca, semolina, all of them are so much easier than the dreaded pastry.” Her hand hovered over the sandwich platter indecisively before she picked a cucumber. “My greatest success has been with bread-and-butter pudding,” she said proudly. “Even Felix agreed it was very good. You make it with any stale leftover bread, just adding currants, sugar, milk, and butter.”

Clem managed to keep his face straight by the greatest of effort. “Nursery puddings, you mean?”

“Nothing of the sort!” Dora protested. “Did you never like to eat pudding when you were at school?”

That sobered Clem up straight away. “Indeed,” he agreed gravely. “But we only had it on Sundays.” Keen to dispel Drummond Hall from his mind altogether, he asked lazily, “Do you really have so much leftover bread? When I met you the other week you had none left in the house for you had forgotten to visit the bakers.”

She grimaced. “Do not remind me; Felix will never let me live that down. I had rather a good idea as it happens. I bought three loaves of bread to spare myself needless journeys throughout the week. Then the third loaf started to turn green and moldy, so I was forced to cut off the crusts and several mold spots and Felix was most suspicious about why the bread was such an irregular shape.”

“What a mistrustful nature your brother has,” he smirked.

“He does, doesn’t he?” she agreed roundly.

“How about Allsop?” Clem asked casually. “What does he think of pudding for supper?”

She smiled, causing Clem’s gut to clench in a peculiar way. “I think Harold rather approves,” she said, blithely unaware of his displeasure. “He always has a second helping, and frankly, it’s a lot more palatable than anything else I’ve attempted. I know for a fact that Felix is scoffing down meat pies at lunchtime, so I fail to see why a nice stodgy pudding should not suffice for his evening meal.” She turned on him impulsively. “How about you?” she asked. “Do you insist on meat at every meal?”

“Ah,” Clem stalled, hesitant to admit he did not consider any meal complete without it. “I, too, am fond of pudding,” he lied. The only pudding, he cared for was steak and kidney. “But once we are installed at Juniper Row, we can reinstate your Mrs. Cheviot to the kitchen, so you will not need to make it again.”

“Cherwell,” she corrected him with a smile. “I cannot wait to write to her with the good news.” A note of anxiety crept into her voice. “Are you quite sure you can bear the expense?”

“I’m quite sure,” he assured her. He was damned if he was going to be eating cold tapioca pudding for his supper every night when he moved into her family home!

“Maybe I will have time this evening to drop her a line,” Dora mused, swallowing the last bite of her sandwich and reaching for a dainty Genoese fancy from the petit four plate.

“On our wedding night?” Clem asked with a raised brow.

Dora almost dropped her tiny cake. “Oh, er, of course not,” she murmured sheepishly, not quite able to meet his eye.

Her nervousness should be tiresome, but somehow … it wasn’t. And why was that? Clem pondered as they moved into the grand salon once their meal was done. Face facts, Dabney, he told himself sternly, you have a decidedly soft spot for her. It seemed that somehow in the past five weeks she had managed to endear herself to him.

She was rather like a spaniel, he thought. Perpetually hopeful, good-natured, and lively, she would likely be loyal too, until she found out what a lying cad he was. He liked her. Which could be a problem, considering he was essentially gulling her right now.

How would she react when it all came out? He found himself wondering about this for the first time. This part of proceedings had not really seemed to strike him as important at the outset. Now though … For some reason, he felt a little uneasy about it. He summoned a waiter and asked Dora to choose their next cocktail.

Of course, she knew that he had married her for a quarter interest, she was just unaware that she was gifting him the majority share. Was it really such an issue or was he making too much of it? It wasn’t like him to get caught up on small details when there was a bigger scheme at hand. He watched as Dora ran her eyes up and down the cocktail menu, asking the waiter about the flavor of some cordial.

He could really do with a visit to the smoking room, he thought, glancing back over his shoulder, but he was reluctant to leave Dora unattended at this stage. What if she ran off and left him? Or bumped into some acquaintance who might drag her back to her brother? She was nervous enough to be spooked, he reckoned, though she had moments when she forgot what she had done that morning and relaxed for a few moments. Then he would let something slip, usually some teasing remark and she would immediately tense up again. He frowned.

“You do not like the sound of a Blushing Lady?” Dora asked, misinterpreting his expression. “Its ingredients sound quite nice. Pomegranate liqueur, grapefruit juice, and vodka,” she read aloud from the menu.