Page 11 of Moaning Under the Mistletoe
“If that is true, the real question is; why don’t they? The only conclusion is that this plain fare must suit the palate of their members.” Mr Mardin’s expression told Ambrose exactly how boring Mr Mardin thought the members were.
“I’ve always found it satisfactory.” He didn’t need fancy flavours, merely a warming soup on a cold day and some interesting conversation.
“Perhaps that’s only because you’ve never had more.” Mr Mardin’s kindness was unexpected. After he’d been so jovial about being disappointed by the soup, Ambrose had assumed he’d continue to tease him but with the deserved disdain of having money and choosing to be boring. He held Mr Mardin’s gaze.
“And are you offering me more?”
“Only if you ... want it.”
Heat blazed through him. He really did want ... Mr Mardin, and the last thing he was thinking about was food. He wanted to pull Mr Mardin to his feet and drag him upstairs to an empty room.
“Excuse me, my lord, are you ready for the next course?” The footman’s interruption dragged him back to reality and he gulped.
“Yes. Take these away.”
Mr Mardin frowned as they waited for the staff to clear the table and set out clean plates and cutlery. Ambrose sipped his wine. How had he forgotten it was there?
“Our next two dishes are the chef’s signature raised game pie, and succulent pork cutlets with red cabbage.”
Mr Mardin sipped his wine, then looked up at the footman. “Excuse me?”
“Yes?” The footman paused.
“Do you know what game is in the pie?”
“Today’s pie is venison, duck, and guinea fowl.”
Mr Mardin nodded, with his eyes slightly wider than before.
“Is that to your satisfaction?” Ambrose’s curiosity won out.
“I have never eaten any of the three mentioned.”
“What do you mean?” Ambrose ate his own venison frequently—a benefit of having lands—and he could understand how someone who’d lived only in London might not have had a chance, but all the good restaurants had duck and guinea fowl.
“Growing up in a working-class family on the docks in London means I have simply never had the opportunity to try these things.”
Ambrose wanted to show Mr Mardin everything; all the great restaurants in London and Paris, all the best homes, and shower him with every luxury. A chill crossed the back of his neck. It was unlike him to lose his mind over one excellent fuck. Maybe he should leave? But then Mr Mardin lifted a fork of game pie to his mouth, and Ambrose was anchored to his chair unable to look away.
“Good?” His voice croaked, betraying the turmoil inside him.
“It is wholesome, slightly rich with the pastry, but I can see why all the Lords want to have this for lunch.”
Ambrose needed to get control over the desire rampaging through him, so he leaned into grumpiness. “It’s why they all have gout.”
Mr Mardin clapped his hand over his mouth, his eyes sparkling and his nose scrunched up. After a while, he lowered his hand. “Stop. I’ll choke if you make jokes like that while I’m eating.”
“Please don’t choke.” Ambrose hadn’t thought it was that funny, but he had heard that the lower classes liked to mock his peers, so maybe it was funny to Mr Mardin. He’d simply been sneering at the reckless excess of some of his peers. The need to always have more wasn’t something he understood, and he certainly didn’t want to suffer gout like his father had. It was a miserable thing.
“Are you going to try some?” Mr Mardin had another bite.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“My appetite has disappeared.” He shouldn’t have started thinking about gout. The latest quacks believed in cures like Okey’s Concentrated Essence of Jamaican Ginger, but he’d rather just stay fit and not over-indulge. His father had had a taste for port, and in his observations, it was too much rich food that seemed to cause gout. His father had certainly never said no to any of life’s pleasures to the detriment of the estate, and it’d taken him over a decade to restore the finances to an acceptable level. The lands were plentiful and gave the estate strong incomes, but his father had spent too much and depleted the estate, rather than maintain it. For all his talk of the responsibilities of the Earldom, his father had preferred to keep up the perception of wealth rather than focus on retention and creation of funds.
“Was it something I said?”
