by Joanna Shupe
She excused herself to Lockwood, then took Kit’s arm, and he led her to the far side of the room, near the piano. At least here they would still be in clear view but out of earshot.
“Are you certain this is wise? We could arouse suspicion.” Folding her hands, she kept a proper distance. Kit set his coupe on the smooth surface of the piano and crossed his arms.
“Are you setting your cap for the duke?” The words tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop them, and she blinked a few times, her dark lashes kissing the tops of her cheeks.
“You don’t care for him, do you?”
“No, but it hardly matters what I think. It’s what you think that matters.”
“He’s betrothed to Maddie. I don’t think anything about him beyond that.”
“So you aren’t interested in him? In becoming a duchess?”
Her brows drew together. “Where is this coming from?”
How could he explain it without sounding as if he’d been obsessing over her? You were staring at him, and then I saw you switch sticks to join his team for croquet. And now, you came up to chat with him out of nowhere.
Kit’s shoulders sank. He was acting ridiculous. Worse, he was acting jealous. He didn’t do jealousy. Ever. Lovers were temporary and no one had a right to put a claim on anyone else. What had come over him?
It was time to return to the purpose of his association with Alice. “Forget it. When is our next lesson?”
“Do you think Lockwood could ever be interested in me?”
He dragged a hand down his jaw and tried to gather the scattered shards of his sanity. “Of course. As well, I heard Miss Delafield was attempting to matchmake.”
“True, but it hardly matters now.” She gestured to the small group admiring Maddie’s ring. “Seeing as how he’s spoken for.”
“The engagement will not last. So, if you are interested in marrying Lockwood, you still have a fighting chance.”
“Along with every other debutante on the East Coast.”
“Not every debutante has me helping her, however. I’d say that gives you an advantage.” If Alice put her clever brain—and his lessons—toward winning the duke, nothing could stop her. Lockwood would be a fool not to take notice.
“Hmm.” She turned to study Lockwood in a way that set Kit’s teeth on edge. “Living an ocean away from my mother would have its perks.”
“Yes, but what about your friends? The rest of your family?”
“I don’t really have friends, not close ones, anyway. There aren’t any siblings or cousins. And my father travels all the time for business, so I’d still see him.”
Kit wasn’t ready to give up yet. “He’d probably ship you off to some drafty old manor house in the middle of nowhere.”
“I wouldn’t mind that. It would be fun to explore. Perhaps have a ghost or two for company.”
Had she an answer for everything? “He’s terrible at cards.” Kit had witnessed this firsthand at the casino. “No doubt he’d gamble your money away the first chance he got.”
“I’m very good at managing money. My father saw to that. Besides, why are you trying to talk me out of pursuing someone? It’s the whole reason you are giving me lessons.”
He had no idea. Perhaps he’d truly lost his mind.
“I am not trying to talk you out of the duke. Pursue him all you like when Maddie throws him over.” The only thing left to do was retreat. “I’ll find you after dinner.” With that, he quit the room and went searching for Harrison.
Alice followed the faint smell of roasted meat down to the chateau’s kitchen. Dinner had long finished and her mother had turned in for the night. Which meant Alice was free to do as she wished without being followed.
Originally, she planned to find Kit and embark on more lessons, but something about their conversation during cocktails bothered her. He’d actively tried to talk her out of pursuing the Duke of Lockwood, offering up excuses on why the match was unsuitable. Why? Wasn’t Kit eager to wash his hands of her?
It made no sense. Kit was a certified scoundrel. A first-rate bounder with no intention of marrying. And even if he did plan to take a wife, he wouldn’t want Alice.
Christopher is not the marrying kind.
Maddie knew it. Katherine had warned her away, too. Entertaining romantic thoughts about Kit was foolish and impossible, like wishing on rainbows. Alice was much too practical for that nonsense, and she needed to find a suitable husband instead.
So, she would work harder to ignore the fluttering in her stomach when they were together. To forget the racing of her heart, or the heavy pulse between her legs when Kit kissed her. It was temporary. She needed to build up distance between them—literally and figuratively.
Which was why she went to the chateau’s kitchen that night.
The kitchen was huge, a big open space where multiple staff members could move about freely. A long table stood in the middle, which was where the Websters’ cook, Mrs. Berman, waited. “Forgive my tardiness,” Alice said as she entered. “I had to see my mother settled first.”
Mrs. Berman had dark brown hair with a touch of gray at the temples. Though she was probably tired, she gave Alice a smile and held up an apron. “No apologies necessary, miss. There’s always plenty to do around here. I’ve kept busy, believe me.”
Alice tied the fresh apron over her clothing. After dinner, she had changed out of her silk evening gown and into a more casual dress. “You are kind to show me how to bake this bread. I am eager to see the magic that makes it so delicious.”
“It’s an honor. Not many ladies are interested in cooking or baking.”
“My mother often reminds me of that—which is why it’s easier for me to sneak down here at night.”
“I understand. It’ll be our secret.”
Alice relaxed, relieved. “Thank you. Now, tell me about this bread.” There had been a unique cinnamon bread at afternoon tea the past two days, unlike anything she’d ever tasted. The texture was similar to a brioche, but different. So Alice had asked Mrs. Berman to let her assist in making it.
Mrs. Berman motioned to the table, where ingredients and jars waited. “It is called babka, which in Polish means ‘grandmother.’”
“Are you from Poland, then?”
“My mother grew up there. I was young when we moved to America, but she taught me to make this, among many other traditional Jewish dishes. Let’s start with the yeast.”
Mrs. Berman had Alice repeat every step as they went along, from mixing the ingredients and heating up the milk, to beating the eggs, until they had the dough formed. They kneaded and talked, with Mrs. Berman sharing stories of her mother and the meals their family enjoyed together growing up. It sounded lovely, warm and inviting, so different from Alice’s holidays at the interminable table in the Lusk dining room. This was what Alice liked best about cooking and food: the stories and the sharing. The feeling that generations before and generations after would create the same dishes with love, just as this one had.
When the dough was ready, they set it aside to rise. Mrs. Berman said, “You’re very competent in the kitchen. I can tell when someone has never kneaded dough before.”
“Thank you. I find baking soothing.”
“Indeed, I do, too. Something about pounding the dough to work out all your frustrations.”
“Exactly,” Alice said with a chuckle.
They prepared a simple sugar syrup while they waited, then Alice washed the utensils and pans so Mrs. Berman could get off her feet for a few minutes. After the first rise finished, they rolled out the dough. The filling was a simple sugar and cinnamon mix, which they spread on the dough and then formed into logs.
“Now, watch.” Mrs. Berman cut the log down the middle, then layered and twisted the dough around itself. “You do it.”
Alice matched the cook’s movements. “How is that?” The twist was a bit sloppy, but not far off.
“Good for your first time. We must put them in the pans
and let them rise once more.” She heated the oven as Alice went back to the sink to clean up.
“Good evening, sir,” she heard Mrs. Berman say.
Curious, Alice glanced over her shoulder—then froze. No, it couldn’t be.
Why was he here?
She lunged for the tap to shut off the water as Kit wandered into the kitchen, the hint of a grin on his face.
“May I help you?” Mrs. Berman asked politely.
“I was searching for Miss Lusk, actually.”
“Ah.”
Alice dried her hands on a towel and came toward the table. “Mrs. Berman, this is Mr. Ward. He’s a friend. Another guest at the party.”
“I see.”
Awkwardness descended, the three of them quiet, and Alice had no idea what to do next. She stared at Kit’s handsome face as he glanced around the kitchen. Mrs. Berman took matters into her own hands by asking, “Miss, would you like a moment alone with Mr. Ward or . . . ?”
Alice was grateful for the choice. It was unusual for a guest, let alone two guests, to wander belowstairs, and Mrs. Berman seemed like the protective sort. “Yes, if you don’t mind. Actually, we could bake the loaves, if you like. That way, you needn’t stay up and wait.”
The cook showed Alice how to turn off the heat when they were done with baking. “Otherwise, you’ll burn the whole place down,” Mrs. Berman warned.
“I won’t forget. You have my word,” Alice said.
“Good. Bake them for thirty minutes, then apply two layers of syrup with the brush. That will give them a nice shine and help them last.”
“Understood. Thank you, Mrs. Berman. This has been a wonderful lesson and I appreciate your time.”
“Of course, miss.” Mrs. Berman patted Alice’s hand, then she leaned in to say quietly, “If you need me, I am at the end of the hall.”
Alice bit her lip and nodded. Kit posed no danger to her, but the sweet cook didn’t know that. “Mr. Ward will help me clean up.”
Mrs. Berman nodded and they all exchanged good-nights. When they were alone, Kit approached the worktable. His shoulders seemed impossibly wide, his expression ridiculously charming. He was overwhelming in the best way possible, the sort that set her belly afire with longing.
Too bad he wasn’t the marrying type.
Distance, Alice. Keep up those walls.
He leaned a hip against the table and dragged a fingertip over her cheek. It came away with cinnamon on it. “Well, well. Why am I not surprised to find you down here?”
She swallowed, pushed her inconvenient feelings aside and tried to unglue her tongue from the roof of her mouth. “I was watching Mrs. Berman make bread.”
“I can see that. Do you do this often?”
“No. Just tonight. Why?”
“Always off getting lessons, aren’t you?” He cocked his head. “Franconi, Mrs. Berman, me. You’re forever learning, trying to soak up knowledge.”
“Is that not the point of life? To try and learn as much as we can while we’re here? Besides, women don’t have as many opportunities for learning as men do.”
“Most women your age don’t concern themselves with learning. They’re worried about parties and invitations and dresses.”
“I think if given the opportunity, more women would choose learning first. It’s hard to win a race when you’re always starting from behind.” She put the loaf pans in the oven, then cleaned her hands on the apron. “Thirty minutes and then we brush them.”
“You look at home here in the kitchen. Happy. Confident.”
Did he suspect just how deep her passion for cooking ran? “I like spending time in a kitchen. Food makes memories and creates stories, and each of those stories brings people joy. It’s like love on a plate.”
Looking down at the worktable, he evened up the utensils on the surface. “Speaking of joy, I was worried you were skipping our lesson tonight.”
Not skipping, per se, but postponing until she’d shored up her defenses against his potent magnetism. “No. I just needed to do this first. I didn’t wish to keep Mrs. Berman up too late.”
“Had you planned on telling me?”
“I . . .” Had he been waiting on her? They hadn’t spoken after dinner and she assumed he’d fill his evening with Harrison or the casino. Drinks and merriment. Not watching the clock for when she’d arrive. “I was going to find you later.”
“Were you?” He searched her face. “Or were you upset that I disparaged the Duke of Lockwood before dinner?”
Not exactly upset. More like confused. “It’s clear you do not like him.”
“You should make up your own mind. So, forgive me if I put you off in any way.”
An apology. How unexpected. She liked this thoughtful and sensitive version of Kit Ward. A lot.
Christopher is not the marrying kind.
It was imperative to keep repeating those words, to keep a lock around her heart that prevented scoundrels—no matter how charming—from stealing it. She wanted to seduce a man who would return her affections and actually marry her. Kit was not that man.
There was only one thing to do. She handed him a dry towel. “Help me finish the dishes.”
Chapter Eight
Alice rinsed another ceramic bowl and handed it to Kit. He hadn’t complained once about drying dishes; instead, he merely removed his jacket, rolled up his sleeves and got to work. If this was his first time helping in the kitchen, she couldn’t tell.
Working side by side with him was easier than expected. He didn’t chatter on to fill the silence, as many people did. Instead, she washed and he dried, with the smell of baking bread and cinnamon filling the kitchen.
“How did you find me?” she asked as she handed him the last utensil for drying.
“I asked several footmen, one of whom saw you come down the stairs.”
“What if we are seen?”
“In the kitchen?” He huffed a laugh. “Not a soul would believe I was here, drying dishes.”
“Not manly enough for you?”
“Not scandalous enough for me.”
She drained the water in the sink. “Perhaps it’s a different sort of scandalous. Think what the gossip columns would say.”
“One shudders to consider it. I’d never be able to show my face in the Union Club again.”
Now it was her turn to chuckle. “Your secret is safe with me.” She dried her hands and went to the oven. “Will you help me glaze the loaves?”
He finished drying the last spoon. “It would be my pleasure.”
She took the loaf pans out of the oven, making sure to turn the heat off, and pointed to the sugar syrup. “Bring that here along with a brush.” When he tried to hand her the syrup and brush, she pointed to the loaves. “You may have the honor, Mr. Ward.”
He frowned at the items in his hands. “What do I do?”
“Brush the top of each loaf with syrup.”
“How?”
Alice’s lips twitched but she managed to keep a neutral expression. He was adorable. Taking his hand, she dipped the brush into the syrup and moved to the piping hot bread. “Now brush all over the top, really coating it.” She released him and nudged his shoulder with hers.
He lightly touched the brush to the bread, almost as if he were afraid of tearing it. “How much should I brush on?”
“We’ll go with what feels right, but we need to brush two coats on each. Don’t worry about hurting the bread. Give it a good soak.”
Growing bolder, he applied more glaze to the loaf. “You’re laughing at me.”
“I am not. The only way to learn is by doing.”
“Sort of like kissing,” he said, his voice deepening.
She could feel her skin heat in a way that had nothing to do with being near the warm oven. “Exactly. No one is perfect at first.”
“Well, I was . . . but I’m preternaturally skilled in that department.”
His arrogance drew a laugh out of her. “I can hardly argue, considering.
So, who taught you how to kiss?”
He switched to the other loaf. “A milliner’s daughter when I was eleven. She was fourteen.”
Goodness, eleven! How different his experience had been from hers. “How did you meet her?”
“I went to buy my mother a hat for her birthday. It was before she grew ill, but I noticed she was sad. I had the foolish idea that a new hat might cheer her up.”
“Why foolish?”
He sighed and put the syrup down, but he didn’t move away, the two of them not even an arm’s length apart. “She needed a new husband, not a new hat. Except I was too young to know as much.”
Clearly, his mother had meant a lot to him. And she undoubtedly had adored Kit, a sweet son who wished to make her feel better. “I bet she loved that hat.”
A soft, affectionate smile emerged. “She asked to be buried in it.”
“Oh, Kit.”
His shoulders rose and fell with the force of a deep breath. “I hadn’t thought of that in a long time. It is a rare nice memory, one of only a handful from my childhood.”
Shadows darkened his whiskey-colored gaze, a flicker of sadness in a man who leaned toward the perpetually cheerful. An ache blossomed in her chest and, without thinking, she rose up on her toes and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I am sorry.”
A deep chasm formed between his brows. “For what?”
She cocked her head, surprised. Had no one ever sympathized with him? Had no one ever told him that no child should have to endure hundreds of terrible memories? “For a boy who deserved better.”
Blinking, he stared at her. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking, his expression revealing little as they stood together. Had she overstepped? She’d merely wished to offer some comfort, a small comment to ease his mind.
Just as she opened her mouth to apologize, Kit spoke. “Shall we continue with our lessons?”
Right, the lessons. For a moment, she’d forgotten. They had seemed like two friends, talking and sharing, getting to know one another better, but that had been an illusion. She and Kit weren’t friends. They were friendly, yes, but he was helping her in exchange for recipes.
Stepping back, she wrapped a towel around her hand and lifted one of the hot loaf tins. “Of course. Let me move these so they cool down for tomorrow.” Soon she had both loaves in the larder, where they would remain until tea the following afternoon. When she returned to the kitchen, Kit held the bowl with the sugar syrup in his hands.