She’d come to realize that the man in her heart had become less Stuart Somerset than an ideal man she’d invented and reinvented over the years. The real Stuart Somerset was a mystery to her and, more than once, a disappointment: He was nothing of the fearless lover she remembered, but a man very much ruled by—and in thrall to—the conventions of Society.
Sometimes she wondered whether she still gravitated toward him simply because she could not face the fact that her faithful love might have been a mistake—a beautiful mistake, but a mistake enormous and pervasive all the same.
But now as she gazed upon him, her heart did something strange, a twist, a clench, a fracture—she didn’t know what precisely, but yes, the damage was done. She was falling in love with this man, this man who wouldn’t touch her, kiss her, or marry her.
“Do you mind if I smoke?” he asked.
She shook her head.
He rose, and lit his cigarette on the taper. Their eyes met. He was much closer to her now and could probably see most of her, despite the dusky air and the ripples of reflected candlelight on the water. She drew her knees in and circled her arms about her shins. His reaction was a smile as knowing as it was resigned.
He knocked the cigarette against the bowl of the candlestick, using it for an ashtray. “Where did you learn to cook as you do?”
“At the Marquess of Londonderry’s household,” she said—and instantly realized her mistake.
He caught it. “Not in a Parisian establishment?”
She might as well go with the truth now. “No, in the Londonderry kitchen, under a great, but unsung, chef named Monsieur Algernon David.”
He nodded. “How did you come to work for Bertie?”
“Monsieur David had worked for Bertie for some years, until the Marchioness of Londonderry poached him away—at least that was how Bertie told it. He recommended me for Fairleigh Park.”
“And Bertie took you on this recommendation?”
“No. Bertie was quite convinced that while women might make adequate farmhouse cooks, only men could be acolytes in the temple of cuisine. Finally I bought a train ticket, went up to Fairleigh Park, and insisted that he gave me a fighting chance: I would cook a meal for him, and if he rejected me after that, I’d leave.”
Mr. Somerset exhaled a cloud of smoke. “And he couldn’t say no afterward?”
“I suspect he could have said no. He compiled a long list of my shortcomings as a cook—he was knowledgeable and critical about his food. Most French cooks do not care to be told by an Englishman how to cook, but I was quite humble and said that I valued his opinions.”
He smiled. “Did you?”
“No. I thought then that he was unbearably fussy, but I wanted the position.”
“Did you resent having to resort to such humility to secure the position?”
She chuckled. He’d been too long away from Ancoats. “You must understand, sir, to become the cook at an estate like Fairleigh Park was a tremendous step up in the world for me. I would have a room of my own, far better wages, and a kitchen maid to bring me my breakfast every morning. Bertie could have made a list of my faults twice as long and I’d have gladly nodded to it.”
“And yet you flew into a rage when you thought I had insulted your food.”
Ah, he caught her there. She rested her chin on her knee, looked up at him, and allowed her inner coquette to give the answer. “It would seem, sir, that you are destined to provoke a passionate response in me no matter what you do.”
His hand, the one holding the cigarette, tightened into a fist, nearly crushing the cigarette. He looked away, and then back at her. “I’m trying very hard to not join you in that tub, Madame. Please don’t make it any more difficult for me.”
She was hot, so hot. “Why make me sit here in exhibition, then, when you are determined that you cannot, must not, have anything to do with me?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “If I did, I’d have put a stop to it a long time ago.”
She lowered her gaze. “Would you like me to leave?”
“No!”
He said it with such force that it startled both of them. Their eyes met. He laughed without humor. “I like to torture myself, if you can’t tell yet.”
He snubbed out the cigarette and took a step closer to the tub, his eyes obsidian. “Torture me some more, Madame. Do what you did last time.”
Her cheeks were fiery enough to toast bread. But the tease in her would not rest. “Sir, I spent three hours this afternoon stirring a batch of paté without rest. I can barely lift my arms.”
In his eyes was a lust of biblical proportions, the sort that would call down sulfur and brimstone upon an entire city. “I’m tempted to order you to do it, tired arms or not.”
She raised her hand and, with water dripping from her fingers, smoothed the hair at her temple. “Why don’t you then?” she said softly.
He cast a shadow over her. Despite this, her eyes glittered faintly, their color a mutable sheen like that of dragon scales. When she smiled, as she did now, he could see the lovely curvature of her lower lip, generous and full.
She was beautiful.
“I have a better idea,” Stuart heard himself say. “Let me do it for you.”
Her smile disappeared. “You are mad.”
Vous êtes fou.