His tea had gone cold, his porridge sat untouched. He wondered if Jude woke her with kisses or if he had gone awkwardly to his own bed, as Esau had done. He didn’t know which he would prefer.Hadn’t this been what he’d wanted? He leaned his elbows on the table and propped his nose on his clasped fists. Jude wouldn’t let Honoria go now, not if he thought he owed her something for her honor. The man could have been Gallahad, out of one of those poncy stories about Camelot.He smiled at the memory of his mother’s voice, rough from whiskey, telling him all about the gentle knights of the Round Table. He wondered what kind of stories Honoria would tell her children with Jude. Certainly nothing about parlor floors and hired men. In a few years, she would likely have forgotten all about him. Though he supposed that was all right, it did leave a bitter taste in his mouth to think of it. He might have liked to be remembered by at least one pretty girl. None of the whores he’d ever had would remember him, nor the women he’d had for free, but he didn’t remember all of them, either.He wouldn’t ever forget Honoria, though.
