He reached out to take her hand. “Do you love me still, Juliet?”
“I don’t know, Charles. At this moment I feel so overwhelmed and confused that it is an impossible question to answer.”
He smiled, for at least she had not dashed his hopes completely. “I am content with such an answer, for I have no right to expect any more. But know this, I still love you, and if you would have me back again I would surely be the happiest of men.”
“You go too fast, Charles.”
“I know.” He smiled again. “I also know that I’m getting damnably cold out here. Can we please continue at the lodge? I’m so hungry that I could even contemplate shinning up one of those pines for some cones.”
She gave a quick laugh. “There is no need to do that, for I am sure the Retreat’s kitchens can provide better fare than that, and a warm fire too. But no servants to attend to your needs. What you eat must be prepared yourself.”
“That is no hardship to me. My wanderings in Bengal prepared me for most things.”
They turned and made their way back to the lodge, where the kitchens were delightfully warm, the fire there being much larger and staying alight much longer than in the rest of the house. Soon there were fresh flames as Charles poked the winking embers and then added a holly log that spat and crackled as the fire grew stronger. The dancing light shimmered on the many copper pots and pans that hung around the fireplace, and the blue-and-white crockery on the wall dressers was turned to pink and mauve.
The cooking of simple but substantial meals was nothing to Charles, and soon the smell of toasting bread and scrambling eggs filled the air. When the singing of a kettle in readiness for tea was added to the mix, the atmosphere between the estranged couple soon mellowed into a more mutual desire to talk. Juliet so far forgot herself as to giggle when he placed an exceedingly hearty breakfast before her on the scrubbed table. “Why, Charles Neville, I would never have believed you capable of cooking!”
“Nor would I. The brief perusal of a White’s menu card was once my sole contribution, but when the Devil drives . . .” He smiled as he drew out a chair and sat opposite her. “I have to say that scrambled eggs are enhanced to an unbelievable degree by certain eastern spices, none of which is available in this particular kitchen, but one day soon I will see that you sample what I mean.” He colored a little as he finished, for the sentence presumed there was going to be a happy outcome.
She poured the tea. “Aunt M always says that fresh thyme leaves are the best complement to scrambled eggs,” she said almost absently.
“Or perchance a little of the ketchup made from her secret recipe by Mrs. Fellowes, the cook at Neville Castle.”
Juliet nodded. “Yes, a little of that too.” She watched as he applied himself to the food, and when he had finished pushed her own plate toward him. “Have this as well. I’m not really very hungry.”
“I suppose I have ruined your appetite,” he replied a little ruefully.
“Well, I confess to being a little nervous and bemused to find myself breakfasting with you again,” she admitted, then raised an eyebrow at the vigor with which he set about her portion as well. “Just how long is it since you last ate?”
“It feels like a week, but I suppose it was early yesterday afternoon. A Basingstoke inn, as I recall. Indifferent fare.”
“You could have cooked better, no doubt,” she replied with a faint smile.
“Indeed I could.”
Their eyes met, and this time she did not look away. “Why did you turn to Sally Monckton?” she asked quietly.
He exhaled slowly. “My reasons were shameful and callow, and reveal me to have been little more than a boy masquerading as a man.” He explained exactly how he had felt at that foolish time, and with each word he felt more humbled and dishonored. He did not leave out a single detail, or spare himself by making excuses, so that when he finished he could truthfully say that she now knew everything. He stripped his conscience bare, and there was nothing more he could do to convince her of his remorse.
She said nothing when he finished, and he became anxious. “Juliet, it would not happen now, believe me. Six years is more than time enough to reflect upon all that I so stupidly threw away.”
She toyed with her teacup. “I believe all you’ve told me, Charles, but you have to understand that your actions proved I could not trust you. I’m sure that if I were the one explaining my infidelity, you would also find it hard to trust me again.”
The words echoed Lady Marchwell’s. “It would be deceitful of me to deny it, for I could not bear to think of you in someone else’s arms.”