Page 75 of Claimed By Her Forbidden Duke
There is no turning back now.
She found she liked it. What she’d walked into wasn’t some dangerous den, as she had imagined when thinking of the escort’s house. A bed that he would bind her to, or scandalous artwork everywhere. No, what awaited her was candles.
A whole array of them had been placed around a lavish dining room that looked as normal as her own back home, if a bit smaller. And Edmund was already waiting for her, with a chair pulled out.
“Am I surprising you?” He laughed.
The sound was so unexpected that she laughed too, nervous and caught off-guard.
“Yes,” she admitted. “I… I did not expect this. Dinner and candles and… normalcy.”
“Did you expect the dark Duke that everybody whispers about?” The smirk on his face was utterly devastating, and Penelope could not help but be drawn to him, her heart pounding. “The one who would pin you to this very table and ask what you wanted him to do to you?”
She blushed again, knowing he had guessed correctly.
“No,” she lied, and he huffed like he didn’t believe her.
Penelope sank into the chair, and Edmund took the one opposite her, but he was back on his feet in a moment, his gaze flickering around the table. It was as though he was unsure in some aspects, too, but that could not be possible.
Could it?
He picked up a bottle of wine and uncorked it, offering it to her.
“You must not try to impress me with some vintage, far-off produced wine, for it will simply not matter to me. I like good taste, and that is all I care about,” she told him, preening when he smiled again.
It was a tight smile, as if he quite didn’t know what to do with it on his face.
“Then it is a good job I know nothing about this wine beyond pilfering it from Julian’s wine cellar and knowing it is red.”
“Red is perfect.”
“Most certainly, when it is the color of your gown.”
He arched a knowing eyebrow and began to pour her a glass of the rich wine. A note of berries filled the air, and she sighed, inhaling the smell. As she did, she caught a scent coming from the Duke—something masculine, heady, as if he had dabbed scented oil somewhere, or bathed in something before arriving.
Exactly as I did.
Edmund quickly poured himself a glass before he gestured to the covered dishes before them.
“There are no servants,” he told her. “I did not want you to worry about being caught or whispered about. It is simply us, good wine, and even better food.”
“And dessert,” she added.
His gaze seared her. “And dessert.”
He lifted the lid of one dish, and her mouth immediately watered at the rich pie, still steaming, surrounded by vegetables. The pastry was thick and crumbling, the filling already bubbling out of the top in small holes that had formed likely during baking.
“I have been told it is a favorite of yours,” Edmund said. “It is possibly unconventional, but I did not wish to imitate an upscale dinner, but something less grand while no less delicious.”
“I am touched,” she said. “And surprised once more. You have put a lot of thought into this.”
He gave her a small laugh, nodding as he cut a generous slice for her and then himself.
A small part of Penelope was thrilled to notice how he served them the same-sized slices. Finley always served her less of anything he had, stating it was customary for a lady to eat less than a man. Yet Edmund simply looked at her interestedly as she eyed their slices.
“It was a favorite of my mother’s,” she told him as he served up what appeared to be Parisian potatoes. “It is something I recall from my childhood. She would occasionally ask our cook for pie at dinner time, forgoing the roasted joints of meat that we would usually have. She was a countess—a poorer one, at that. She led a humble lifestyle, and having the occasional pie was a way for her to honor that. She had taught me to do the same.”
“Your mother taught you well,” Edmund commended, holding a slice of pie up to her in a humorous toast.
