She circled around to the outer room and saw Mrs. Smith busy with Mrs. Clark. The deeply preoccupied Miss Emily immediately slipped out.

Entering the east and west wing rooms of the inner courtyard, she found no one there at all. After thinking for a moment, she went to the outer courtyard. But she only saw the main gate half open, everything quiet, with only the kitchen seeming to have any movement. Knowing that the two male servants of The Bolton Family had gone out to buy things, she almost thought a thief had broken in. But when she suddenly lifted the cloth curtain at the kitchen door, she saw that the person busy inside was actually Ethan Bolton!

Emily Brooks almost instinctively asked, “Why are you the one cooking?”

Ethan Bolton had already heard the noise at the door, so without turning his head, he smiled and said, “You want to say a gentleman stays away from the kitchen? Sorry, you saw it yourself during the picnic at noon—I don’t have that taboo. If you really can’t bear to kill, then just be a vegetarian. Eating beef, lamb, fish, and shrimp while sighing over the cruelty of killing—that’s hypocrisy. Better to be an honest villain than a fake gentleman!”

He paused, then continued leisurely, “You, a young lady, suddenly staying in this countryside where there’s nothing good, can’t even get a decent cup of tea. If you don’t eat well either, when your family comes to visit, won’t they think we’ve neglected you?”

He believed in the principle that food should be refined and dishes finely prepared. Back when he first transmigrated, Mrs. Clark’s cooking—which his mother Mrs. Smith considered pretty good—seemed monotonous and bland to him. Fortunately, he had been a solitary gourmet in his previous life, or else the dull country fare would have given him stomach problems!

Of course, for this reason, he even had to make up a cookbook, claiming it was given to him by some well-read old gentleman he’d met…

At the moment, he wasn’t deliberately trying to please the young lady, but rather, a certain familiar young man had just brought over half a basket of wild vegetables, and if he didn’t use them soon, they’d get old!

Thinking of the lunch earlier, Emily Brooks now understood: Ethan Bolton seemed able to whip up delicious food at any time precisely because he often cooked. But the more this was the case, the more uncomfortable she felt inside.

Such a refined and elegant young man, who would be a sight to behold even at court, how could he be spending his energy on things like this?

After thinking it over, she tiptoed forward, intending to see what exactly Ethan Bolton was up to. But before she could, he spoke again without turning his head: “In the kitchen, it’s either sharp knives or scalding steam, and if pots and dishes break, it’s a mess to clean up! Young lady, you’d better go back and rest.”

She’d just been dismissed in the main room, and now, hearing this tone of rejection again, Miss Emily, who was already brooding over Ethan Bolton’s handwriting, retorted angrily, “Do you really think you can compare to the famous chefs of the capital?”

“Heh.” Ethan Bolton gave a wry smile. “A table set by a famous chef in the capital—how much is it worth? A table of our country farmhouse dishes—how much is it worth? Worlds apart, not comparable. But home-cooked food never gets old, while as for famous chefs… some have real skill, some just have a big name. Rarely does any famous restaurant or chef make food you’d want to eat for ten days straight.”

Emily Brooks was instantly speechless. There was a renowned restaurant in the capital, and she was sick of it after just two meals!

She opened her mouth, suddenly wanting to ask about Ethan Bolton’s handwriting, which could only be described as clumsy. She hoped to hear from him that it wasn’t his, but rather Mrs. Smith’s or someone else’s. But when the words reached her lips, she forced herself to hold back.

His background must be somewhat mysterious—why risk poking at his sore spot? Besides, handwriting can be practiced. Worst case, when she returned to the capital, she could pester her grandmother to find a learned old Hanlin to teach Ethan Bolton how to write properly!

Yes, yes, she absolutely couldn’t let him know she’d secretly looked at the copybooks on his bookshelf!

Ethan Bolton, however, had no idea how tangled the young lady’s thoughts were. With half coaxing and half trickery, he finally managed to persuade her to leave.

Though she was still brooding, Emily Brooks was nonetheless looking forward to dinner. At the picnic at noon, she had enjoyed both the food and the view; with everyone sitting together at dinner, wouldn’t she have an even better excuse to look at him openly?

However, when dinnertime came, as she waited in the main room, she saw only Mrs. Smith come in alone carrying a tray. When she saw Mrs. Smith smiling as she set down a plum blossom-shaped food box and two lidded small bowls on the table, she couldn’t help but be taken aback.

When the lid of the food box was lifted, she was even more puzzled. It wasn’t that she recognized some of the dishes and not others, but that she realized, though the variety was rich and the meal was sumptuous, it was clearly only enough for one person.

“This is cold amaranth salad, stir-fried plantain, lotus leaf steamed rabbit, rice wine steamed small fish, soup dumplings, wild vegetable and egg pancakes… In these two small bowls are tofu and fish paste soup, and steamed rice with mushrooms and diced ham.”

Mrs. Smith, who had personally brought these over, smiled apologetically before continuing, “A’Shou said, since this is your first time staying in the countryside, you must not be used to eating with strangers, so it’s better for everyone to eat separately.”

After Mrs. Smith left with a smile, Miss Emily, left alone in the spacious main room and forced to enjoy this delicate but meager dinner at the square table by herself, couldn’t help but slam her chopsticks on the table in frustration, practically grinding her teeth in anger.

He’d spoken so nicely in the kitchen just now, and now he’s talking about eating separately! When did I ever say I couldn’t eat at the same table with strangers? Didn’t I eat with you at noon?