A Companion for the Count: A Regency Romance by Britton, Sally (story reading .txt) 📗

“Thus putting you at the center of the evening.” She finished the thought for him, coming out of her thoughts and wearing a look of such pleasure that he smiled merely to see it. “You said your family sent recipes.”

“Sheets and sheets of them.” Luca paced from her to a tall, thin-branched tree, looking up into its bright orange leaves. “Pasta al pesto e pesce. My favorite meal.” He turned to find her watching him. “Other courses, too. I will give them all to the cook, after I speak to Her Grace about taking over her dining table.”

When Miss Arlen laughed, her cheeks turned a soft shade of pink. “I am delighted at your enthusiasm. Most men would think arranging a menu beneath them.”

“Pah.” He made the same sound his mother made when she felt particularly dismissive. “In my country, food is a language of its own. Everyone must speak it, consider it, and enjoy it. Our breads, sauces, pasta. It is important.”

She came to stand beneath the tree, leaning against its trunk as she watched him speak. “Does everyone feel that way about it?”

He shrugged. “There is pride in providing food for the table. Only the monks I lived with did not express it so—but even they said that food ought to be prepared with joy and thanksgiving. There are some dishes that tell our whole history.” He paused, studying her expression. “I am boring you, sicuramente. The English do not care so much.”

She arched one eyebrow at him. “I am not the least bored, my lord.”

A breeze passed far overhead, loosening the leaves at the top of the tree enough that a few fluttered down, flickering like flames in the air around them. Luca put a hand to one low limb, steadying himself as his mind reached backward to the lessons he had learned at tables heavily laden and those nearly bare.

“When Rome was the capital of the world, so much wealth came from agriculture. From grain, used to make bread. Then Christianity rose while Rome declined, and the Holy Sacrament taught us to see our Lord’s sacrifice in the bread we ate to live. Grain is a symbol of prosperity. When my people learned of pasta—of eating it fresh, of preparing it with few ingredients, and the possibility of drying it for storage and travel—we took it into our lives and upon our tables with enthusiasm. Even the poorest family can find enough flour, a little salt, eggs, and make a meal that will feed their children and fill them.”

He caught a leaf as it fell through the air and twirled it idly between his fingers. “There is even a factory in Venice—far from my home, but I have heard of it—that makes pasta in enormous batches and sells it on the streets and exports it to other countries.”

“How incredible. I cannot think of any way that we distribute food on such a scale.” She came closer, no longer leaning against the tree but peering up into his face with her wide, intelligent eyes. “Pasta is a sign of prosperity.”

“Yes, but there is more.” Luca opened his arms, his hands gesturing as he spoke—a habit learned from his father. “When you sit at a table in my country, it is a show of trust. No decisions are made between neighbors who have not first broken bread together. When you are invited to eat with a family, it is a show of acceptance. Even affection.” He paused with one hand still in the air, looking down into her gaze and finding curiosity and interest.

“Affection?” she repeated. “Food shows affection? The French believe it is an art form, and so do the English. A meal on a well-laid table is a chance to impress others.”

He snorted. “I have noticed.” Then he realized his mistake and hastily lowered his arms, resuming the appropriate posture of a diplomat. An imitation of an English lord’s stance. “Forgive me. I forget myself. I meant no disrespect—”

She made a dismissive gesture with one hand. “I am learning, my lord. You are introducing me to your culture. Is that not what an ambassador is meant to do?”

Luca gazed into her earnest expression, her eyes lively with interest, and leaned closer to her. “You would be amazed at the food upon my family’s table, Signorina Arlen. My mother, though a fine lady, watches over the kitchen with care. Sometimes, she prepares our favorite pastas alongside our cook.”

“Do you know how to make it, too?” she asked, and Luca realized quite suddenly how close they stood.

Close enough that they shared the same breath.

Close enough that if he leaned forward only a little more and if she tilted her chin upward a mere inch—

Too close. They were too close.

He stepped back, confused at his wandering thoughts. She remained silent. Waiting for him to speak.

What had she asked?

Oh, yes. Did he know how to make pasta?

“I have seen it done many times.” But he had never done it himself. He had watched in his mother’s kitchen as a boy, then watched the monks while he took on the less important kitchen duties that would not dishonor the son of a prominent family. “I could do it, I think,” he muttered, rubbing at the back of his neck.

Had he nearly kissed Signorina Arlen? The flicker of thought had come and gone so quickly.

Because we were talking about food, he told himself firmly. Somehow, speaking of his native food had brought about a moment of passion. Passion for food. Not for kissing. For tasting the cuisine of his home country. Not tasting Signorina Arlen.

What would kissing her taste like?

The sudden curiosity alarmed him. He needed to court Lady Josephine. That could not be done if he entertained ideas of kissing her lady’s companion.

“That is a singularly wonderful idea,” she murmured quietly.

Luca whirled around. Had he spoken aloud? “Idea? Che idea?” He felt the tips of his ears burning and hoped his hair hid them from view.