@britishdetectives requested, and @anotherkitchenette seconded, shirtless Foyle eating waffles. I do my best. Apologies for my schoolgirl French.
Petit-déjeuner anglais ou belge? the landlady had said, and Christopher, impatient for her to leave them, had answered de rien, merci. Rosalind had laughed and said je voudrai le petit déjeuner belge, mais anglais pour mon mari, s’il vous plait.
When he woke, the first thing he noted was that the sun came from a different angle than in his own bedroom, and next that he could feel smooth sheets against all his skin from shoulder to heel, and finally that the bed was warm beside him. He opened his eyes as the door creaked.
Rosalind slipped in barefoot, wrapped in his dressing gown belted with the scarf she’d worn on the train yesterday. She had a laden tray in her hands, and her dark hair hanging loose down her back, and her eyes sparkled as she said “Good morning, Mr. Foyle.”
“Good morning, Mrs. Fo-oh!” He grabbed at the sheet as he sat up.
“Don’t worry on my account.” The chuckle in her voice was somehow more delightful than an open laugh. “Madame assured me she won’t want to do the room until afternoon. We won’t be disturbed.” She put the tray down on the bed, went back to latch the door, then shed the dressing gown as quickly as a fish slipping out of a net. She, too, was naked beneath, all rosy skin and dark curls. She climbed into bed beside him and pulled the tray closer, half over his lap and half over her own, before she kissed him.
The china rattled on the tray with their movements and regretfully Christopher turned his attention to adjusting the pillows. His stomach growled, and he reflected that Rosalind had been right to countermand his dismissal of breakfast.
On his plate there was a hearty slice of black pudding, a fried egg, beans, and a grilled tomato; on Rosalind’s there stood a thing like an outsized honeycomb made of bread. When she saw him looking at it she broke off a piece with her fingers and held it out for him.
“It’s called a gaufre,” she said. “It’s a bit like a crumpet, with more air in it.”
He nipped her fingers in fun as he took it in his mouth. She trailed her hand along his arm as he chewed. It was light and crisp, and not as sweet as he’d imagined. “Delicious,” he said, and kissed her again.
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