Delicious (The Marsdens #1)

The force of her hope was a knife in his chest. After all that had happened with Bertie, how could she still be so na?ve, so unabashedly, heedlessly optimistic? And yet he wanted to hold on to her hope and carry it next to his heart. He wanted to do as she asked, and offer her everything that he’d waited so long to give.

“Michael departs Sunday afternoon. You will leave London no later than Monday morning,” he said. “You may take what time you need to collect and transfer your belongings from Fairleigh Park. But I expect you to have vacated your post before the end of the year.”

The dead silence burned. He stared empty-eyed at the rain. Remember this. This was what happened when he chose to indulge himself at her expense. It was she who lost her position, her home, and her hard-won proximity to her son.

He forced himself to continue. “I understand you have been asked to contribute the wedding breakfast and the wedding cake. I will make your excuses to Miss Bessler.”

“You are disgusted with me,” she said, her voice pale, disembodied.

He shook his head. “No, I am in love with you. And it is wrong.”

“It is not.”

“It is. And you know it is. Were you Miss Bessler, would you tolerate it?”

“Were I Miss Bessler, I’d prefer a husband who isn’t in love with someone else.”

He sighed, his heart bound and shackled. “Miss Bessler and I have made a commitment to each other, a commitment that I cannot break without severe repercussions. But beyond that, we are also friends of long standing. And I will not hurt her to please myself.”

She said nothing.

“I’m sorry.” He had no defense against the accusations of his own conscience. “I will assume responsibility for Michael’s education. I will provide opportunities for advancement when he is finished with university. I will—”

“No, thank you,” she said quietly. “That will not be necessary.”

“Let me help, please.”

“You don’t owe me anything. There were two of us in this delusion. You did nothing to me without my eager consent. I’m only sorry that—” She took a long breath. “No, I’m not sorry for anything. Such is love. And such is what happens to a cook who wants too much.”

He turned around. But she had her back to him, her fingers clutched tight around the photograph of himself and Bertie. She seemed very small, her head bent, her shoulders heavy, her neck so vulnerable he could barely stop himself from taking her in his arms.

“I’m sorry, Verity.”

“As am I,” she said. She let go of the photograph and wiped her hand across her face. “Good-bye, Stuart.”





Chapter Eighteen


On Saturday evening, after she finished cooking dinner, Verity carried a kettle of water up to the attic. She already had a tea service set out on her desk, and a tiered cake stand that she’d borrowed from Mrs. Abercromby. She stoked the fire and set the kettle to heat. Then she lifted the cloth she’d draped over the cake stand, to fuss some more with the display. On the bottom tier were rectangles of mille-feuilles and rounds of bite-sized walnut tartlets. The next tier held chocolate-robed macaroons and small cream puffs. And at the very top, instead of the usual madeleines, she had a miniature quartet of boat-shaped coffee tarts.

It was a very pretty array, if she said so herself. She wondered if Michael would perceive it as a transparent effort on her part to cook her way into his heart again. On any other day he would have been right. But not today. Today she’d made one thing after another to keep herself in the kitchen—because when she was in the kitchen, she could clear her head and focus only on the task before her.

It was a dangerous panacea. To forget for a while her ruined heart was to shatter it anew each time she remembered. And each time she remembered, the pain was such that she scrambled for a way to get back into the kitchen, to cook something, anything, to forget it again, even if only for a few minutes, a quarter of an hour.

The water boiled. She made a cup of tea for herself. She hoped Michael came soon, or he would find her crying into her tea towel.

Such is love. And such is what happens to a cook who wants too much. Brave, serene, wise words, when she was anything but. She alternated between a longing to do Stuart bodily harm and an equally fierce desire to kidnap him and run off to some unknown country where they would never be found.

Her things she’d already packed. It was, she supposed, the best way to break the news to Michael. She wished she knew how he would react—he was unpredictable these days. She hoped for warmth and closeness, but she would settle for anything that wasn’t undiluted apathy.

Footsteps in the corridor. She was at the door before she could tell herself to remain calm and wait inside. But it was only Mrs. Abercromby, a tallow in hand, yawning.

“Mrs. Abercromby, you are retiring for the night?” she said, as she was already standing outside her room.

“Yes, Madame.”

“Mr. Somerset and the young man have retired too?”