“Thank you, Grimshaw, we’ll serve ourselves,” Sinclair said.
The footman bowed and left, closing the door behind him.
Quincy could only gape at Sinclair.
He pulled two chairs up to the cart. “Dinner is served, my lady,” he said with a courtly bow. Warmth surged through her at his words, and gesture. Mouth-watering aromas reached her. “It’s getting cold,” he prompted.
She couldn’t resist a smile as she took the indicated chair. He sat down across from her and they filled their plates. Roast chicken, cod, potatoes, asparagus, peas with tiny onions… more food than she usually saw in a week. She dug in.
As Mr. Quincy, she didn’t have to pretend to have the birdlike appetite of a debutante, but she didn’t want to make a pig of herself. After a taste of everything, her thoughts drifted back
