Behind them came a snort. Megs turned to see a transformed Moulder. His wig was freshly powdered, his shoes were shined, and his coat looked sponged and pressed. “That woman is a termagant, she is.”
“Moulder.” Was that a flash of amusement on Godric’s face? “You’re looking quite … butlerly.”
Moulder grunted and held open the door to the dining room. They entered and Megs was glad to note the transformation from last night. Gone were the spiderwebs overhead. The hearth had been swept and a fire crackled there now. The big table in the center of the room had been polished with beeswax until it gleamed.
Godric stopped short, his eyebrows raised. “Your housekeeper is indeed a gem to have changed this room in such little time.”
“Let’s hope her promise of dinner is equally as impressive,” Great-Aunt Elvina boomed.
As it turned out, Mrs. Crumb was simply a paragon of housekeeperly virtue. A beaming Oliver and Johnny soon laid the dinner before them, and Megs was eagerly cutting her portion of goose.
She sighed with contentment over the mouthful of juicy meat and glanced up just in time to meet her husband’s enigmatic gaze.
Hastily she swallowed and tried to appear more ladylike and less like a starving urchin. “It’s quite good, isn’t it?”
He peered down at his plate dispassionately. “Yes, if you like goose.”
“I do.” Her heart sank. “Don’t you?”
He shrugged. “I find goose greasy.”
“Grisly?” Great-Aunt Elvina asked, her brow wrinkled in confusion.
“Greasy,” Godric repeated, louder. “The goose is greasy.”
“Goose is supposed to be greasy,” Great-Aunt Elvina boomed. “Keeps it from being dry.” She picked up a piece from her plate and fed it to Her Grace without bothering to hide the motion.
Megs smiled. “If you don’t like goose, what do you like?”
Her husband shrugged. “Whatever you see fit to serve will do well enough.”
Megs tried very, very hard to keep her smile in place. “But I want to know what you like to eat.”
“And I have told you that it does not matter.”
Her cheeks were beginning to ache. “Gammon? Beef? Fish?”
“Margaret—”
“Eel?” Her eyes narrowed. “Tripe? Brains?”
“Not brains,” he snapped, his voice so low it sounded as if it were scraping gravel.
She beamed. “Not brains! I shall make a note of it.”
Sarah coughed into her napkin.
Great-Aunt Elvina fed Her Grace another scrap as she murmured, “I like brains fried in butter.”
Godric cleared his throat and took a sip of wine before setting the wineglass down precisely. “I have a fondness for pigeon pie.”
“Do you?” Megs leaned forward eagerly. She felt as excited as if she’d won a prize at a fair. “I’ll be sure and ask Mrs. Crumb to tell the new cook.”
He inclined his head, the corner of his mouth tilting up. “Thank you.”
She caught a fond smile on Sarah’s face as her sister-in-law looked between the two of them. Megs felt the heat rise in her face. “What did you do today while we worked on the house?”
Godric’s gaze slid away as he took a sip of wine—almost as if he were avoiding her question. “I usually frequent Basham’s Coffeehouse.”
Great-Aunt Elvina frowned and Megs had an awful premonition—her aunt held quite strong opinions. “Nasty things, coffeehouses. Full of scandal sheets, women of low repute, and tobacco.”
“As well as coffee, of course,” Godric said with an entirely straight face.
“Well, naturally coffee, but—” Great-Aunt Elvina began.
“How is Her Grace feeling this evening?” Megs cut in hastily. From across the table, her husband shot her an ironic look that she chose to ignore. “I notice she seems to be eating well.”
“Her Grace spent the entire day abed, panting quite dreadfully. That child overexerted her, chasing Her Grace about.” Great-Aunt Elvina stabbed her fork meditatively into a carrot. “Babies are adorable, naturally, but so messy. Perhaps if there was a way of containing them, especially around sensitive creatures such as Her Grace …”
“Like a small cage, you mean?” Sarah asked innocently.
“Or a tether, set into the ground,” Godric said.
Everyone looked at him.
Sarah’s lips were trembling. “But what about indoors?”
He raised his brows, his expression grave. “Ill-advised, I’m afraid. Best to keep them outside in the fresh air. But if one did bring a baby indoors, I think a hook set into the wall with ties made to fit under the child’s arms would suit.”
Great-Aunt Elvina’s brows had snapped together. She wasn’t known for her sense of humor. “Mr. St. John!”
He turned to her attentively. “Ma’am?”
“I cannot believe you would suggest tying a child to the wall.”
“Oh, no, ma’am,” Godric said as he poured himself more wine. “You have me entirely wrong.”
“Well, that’s a relief—”
“I meant the child should hang on the wall.” He looked kindly at the elderly woman. “Like a picture, as it were.”
Megs had to cover her mouth with one hand to still the giggles bubbling up from inside. Who would’ve guessed that her somberly dry husband could say such outrageous things?
She glanced up and caught her breath. Godric was watching her, his lips slightly curved as he sipped from his wineglass, and she had the oddest notion: that he’d teased Great-Aunt Elvina solely to amuse her.
“Godric,” Sarah chided.
He turned toward his sister, and Megs blinked. She was reading too much into what was merely play between Godric and his sister.
Still.
It would’ve been nice to have some kind of connection to him. She was drawing closer to the point—the time when she would lie with this man. Perform a very intimate act, which she’d only done before with one man—a man she’d loved. To somehow seduce a near stranger into, well, tupping her was a daunting task. If there were any other way of accomplishing her mission, she’d take it and gladly. But there wasn’t, of course. Bedding her husband was the only way to have her child.
Megs picked through the rest of the meal, her nervousness compounding as the hour grew later.
After supper, the four of them retired to the newly dusted library, where Sarah persuaded Godric to read aloud from a history of the monarchs of England while Great-Aunt Elvina nodded off in a wing chair. Sarah brought her needlework bag and was soon contentedly intent on her embroidery, but Megs had never been very adept at fine sewing. For several minutes she wandered the room, her husband’s deep, husky voice making her nerves jangle, until Sarah complained that her “pacing” was distracting.