She put down her spoon and rose from the table. “Lord Carno, I thought you were going to the village.”
He took another long, deep breath, his nose picking up the distinct notes of chicken, herbs, and garlic. “That smells heavenly. What is it?”
“Chicken soup and potato slice. Would you like some?” she replied.
On the table in front of Wister was a half-eaten bowl of what he guessed was chicken and vegetable goodness. A plate sat to one side. On it was a small, thin brown cake.
On the other side of the table, a bowl and plate had been set. Miss York had been expecting company for supper. Him.
And you brushed her off with plans to go into the village. You dolt.
“This is deeply embarrassing. I didn’t realize Polly had already cooked,” he said.
To his immediate and immense relief, she gifted him with a soft smile. “Polly usually makes a large pot of something in the afternoon and then takes whatever is left home with her the next day. There is plenty of it if you would like some. I can bring it up to you in the dining room if you wish.”
Rhys pointed to the place setting opposite hers. “Or I could remember that I am a gentleman and come and sit with you. One should avoid eating alone.”
“Please, have a seat. I shall get you some supper,” she replied.
While he slid his long legs under the table, Wister picked up Rhys’s bowl and carried it over to the stove. She returned momentarily. The bowl was now full of steaming hot soup.
To his surprise, she didn’t resume her seat. Rather, she went back to the stove and added some wood to the fire. She turned and pointed to his soup. “Eat it while it’s still hot, Lord Carno. I will have your potato cake ready in a minute.”
Rhys picked up his spoon and took a sip of the piping hot soup. It tasted as delicious at it smelled. But while the chicken and vegetables went down easily, he still sensed a lump in his throat. Miss York was cooking his supper.
The heady aroma of fried potato soon drifted to his nose. While he watched, Wister went about the business of frying up the cake, sprinkling a little salt and pepper over it as she worked.
A few minutes later, she slid the cake out of the frying pan and onto a plate, then brought it over to the table and set it down in front of him. It was only then that she finally resumed her seat. “Mind your tongue on the potato. It is hot.”
“Thank you. But I feel terrible now that your supper has gone cold,” he replied.
She waved his concerns away. “Whereas I feel bad because we don’t have any onions or bacon to put in the cake. I find they make it much tastier.”
Rhys saw an opening. A chance to break down some of the awkward barriers which his lack of manners had helped create between them. “Did you know that potato and onion cake is a Welsh delicacy?”
“Yes, my godmother was Welsh. Mama always had our cook bake onion cake when she came to visit.”
Rhys broke a piece of the cake off and popped it into his mouth.
Who are you, Miss York, and where did you come from?
The cake was good. Really good. Fried potato was one of his favorite foods. The soft middle was a perfect complement to the slightly burned edges. When he finished his mouthful, Rhys set down his fork. “Mae hynny'n fwyd da,” he said.
Fool, she is English. You cannot speak Welsh to her.
“Sorry, I forgot where I was. I meant to say, this is good food.”
“Diolch yn fawr iawno,” she replied with a smile.
His eyes grew wide. Miss York had understood him. He didn’t meet too many people outside of Wales who knew anything of the language. “You speak Welsh?”
Wister held up a hand. “No, just the occasional phrase here and there. I learned them to please my godmother.”
This girl was fascinating. Every time he thought he was beginning to get a clear idea of her, she surprised him. Miss York was a woman of many talents.
“May I ask how you came to be here? I mean, from the way you carry yourself, you clearly come from a good family. You should have had options in your life—ones that did not include becoming a lady’s companion. I just find it all a little odd,” he said.
She fixed him with a puzzled scowl. “Why? Why would you want to know anything about me? Or are you just making polite supper conversation?”
Rhys had to think about that for a moment. Why did she intrigue him? From the first time he had set eyes on her, there was something about Miss York. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
Yes, she was attractive. Those warm brown eyes that still held his were the kind that a man could easily lose himself in. “I suppose it is a bit of a mix of both. I am trying to be a little nicer to you than I was yesterday, but I must confess to also being curious.”
She picked up her spoon and took another mouthful of her soup. Her gaze drifted from him to the other end of the table. “I was born in Manchester. My family were well-to-do in shipping and textiles. And yes, I did have a privileged upbringing. I had a governess, and fine clothes. My father used to rent a town house in London for the season.”
She closed her eyes and rubbed at her temple. Rhys was torn. He really should be a gentleman and seek to change the topic, but the need to know more about the intriguing Miss York kept him silent.
“And then a winter illness came, and it was all gone. Creditors soaked up what money might have come to me, and I was left having to go into paid service. A friend of a friend knew that Lady Kington was in need of a companion and secured me the position. It paid a pittance, but it was better than…excuse me.”
She put a hand to her lips. When she looked back at him, there were tears glistening in her eyes.
Rhys knew the pain of loss only too well. “It’s a life-changing thing to bury your parents.”
“Yes, it most certainly is.”
Deri and he had talked about the two of them sharing an orphans’ Christmas, yet here was someone else who had as much if not more right to a seat at that unhappy gathering than his cousin did.
He reached across and touched his hand briefly to hers on the table.
Wister blinked back tears. “Sorry.”
“Miss York, you don’t have to apologize for your grief. It’s the only thing we have left to give to our parents.”
His title had never bothered him before, but Rhys was in sudden need to shake it off—to set this relationship on a different footing, dare he think a more friendly one. “If we are to work together, I would like you to call me by my name. I am Rhys.”
Wister lifted her hand, but he quickly placed his other one on top of hers.
He was now holding her hand between both of his. “Please, Miss York, stay at Kington House until the new year. Work with me. Not as my servant, but as my advisor.”
Her gaze lifted from where he held her hands and settled on his face. He caught what at first glance might be seen as a hint of mistrust, but quickly decided it was more likely guarded wariness. He couldn’t blame her for that.
“Alright, Rhys. But you must understand that if I am to act as your advisor, I will offer up opinions that you may not particularly like, nor even agree with. As long as you are prepared to treat my thoughts as something worthy of your consideration, I will accept the role,” she said.
He grinned at her. “Thank you, Miss York.”
She slipped her hand free of his grasp. “Wister. My name is Wister.”