It wasn't towards Ulla. But that was all right. As was the pair of heavy brown boots that had invaded the periphery of her vision. So long as he hadn't seen her spit the biscuit bread.
"Ah don't believe Ah've had the pleasure."
"Me neither. Not yet, anyway."
Or that when it came to such matters as pleasure, it would fall into that category, although really, what was the problem here? Unless he knew about the bread? He wasn't exactly likely to paw her in front of his guests. The wine flagon was probably in far more danger. And pawing her was what had caused the problem the other day. Yet her gorge rose at the sight of those boots. The desire not to be the evening's chosen one, too--bang, bang, bang, the memories punching her head like steel fists.
Why? When she was dead inside? Because
