by Joanna Shupe
“I heard you were attending, so yes. I had Preston wrangle an invitation for me, and God only knows what I’ll owe him in exchange for that favor. Anyway, I suffered through an afternoon of hideous small talk and disapproving stares all for naught because you weren’t even there.”
“My mother canceled at the last minute because of Lockwood’s dinner invite.” Kit had gone to a society event—and he hated society events. None of this made sense. “I don’t understand. Why flowers and tea parties? That’s not like you.”
“Believe me, I know. Nellie told me I needed to woo you the old-fashioned way. That was what I thought she meant.”
Alice couldn’t help it—she laughed. “You took advice from Nellie?”
“It made sense at the time. Regardless, my efforts to convince you to marry me were already underway before that reporter showed up.”
It seemed astounding, but she was beginning to believe him. “You were adamantly against marriage. And now you have changed your mind? Why?”
He sighed and shook his head. “I don’t know. A combination of things, I think. Losing Forrest, realizing I could lose you to Lockwood. Nellie made me admit that I was afraid of treating my wife as my father treated my mother. That I feared I would treat you the same.”
“Oh, Kit. You are not your father. You are honest and loyal to a fault. Smart and honorable, too. How could you ever doubt it?”
His smile was soft and tender, not the practiced version he gave everyone else. No, this smile was hers and hers alone, and it made her stomach flutter. “That is what makes you so special,” he said, “that you see me in such a way. No one else thinks of me in flattering terms like that.”
“They would if they knew you like I do.”
“Don’t you see? That is why I love you, why I need to marry you. Why I want you by my side for the rest of our lives.”
Surprise lodged in her throat, making it hard to breathe. Love? He loved her? It seemed too good to be true. A man like Kit, in love with a plain and boring woman like Alice?
When she didn’t immediately say anything, he stared at his toes. “I heard what you told your mother.”
“You did?” Goodness, would the mortification never end?
“To be fair, I think the entire floor heard.” That soft smile was back, and her insides melted. “I am so proud of you, sweetheart.”
Swallowing, she folded her hands. “I probably should have done that years ago.”
“In any case, you stood up for yourself and put her in her place. I nearly applauded.” He quirked a brow. “I also heard you say that you fell in love with me.”
“That can hardly come as any great surprise, considering. Lord knows I’ve been making a fool of myself over you since the moment we met.”
“The same is most definitely true for me.”
“Really?”
In four steps, he reached her and cradled her jaw in his hands, his forehead pressed to hers. “There’s no one else for me but you, Alice. And I swear, I will dedicate myself every day to making you happy. I’ll buy you a restaurant, if you wish.”
“You would let your wife be a restaurateur?”
“Of course. I won’t ever stop you from doing what you love. Did you think I wanted a proper society wife? You would hate it and so would I.”
“Yes, but I’m worried . . .” Emotions and thoughts tangled in her mind like strands of spaghetti. How could she put this into words?
He searched her gaze. “You are worried, what?”
“That I won’t be enough. That you’ll soon realize your mistake but it will be too late.”
“You think I am lying to you.”
“No, I think you are . . . overcome. By Forrest’s death, by the article, by Lockwood. I don’t wish to make any rash decisions regarding my future—or yours.”
“I see.”
He dropped his hands and stepped back. Her stomach plummeted to the carpet, until he grinned. “You wish for proof. I must prove to you that I am serious about marrying you. That I won’t change my mind in a day or two.”
“I don’t want you to regret this. After you’ve had time to think about it, you’ll see that it would never work between us.”
“You’re wrong, but challenge accepted.” He bowed with a flourish. “Until tomorrow, Miss Lusk.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The massive French-style mansion sat on the corner of Commonwealth Avenue in the heart of Boston’s exclusive Back Bay neighborhood. The mansard roof was dotted with chimneys, and large windows overlooked the thoroughfare. There were more than fifty rooms, complete with secret passages, and skylights designed by John La Farge. Alice loved every square inch of her family home, had explored each nook and cranny while growing up here.
As she exited the carriage, however, the sight brought her no sense of comfort. This world was no longer hers. She would need to leave—and not to her own home with a husband. But to a different life, most likely in Europe, away from the gossip and her mother.
Mama hadn’t spoken one word to Alice today. They missed the early train and had breakfasted separately at the hotel in New York. At least it had given Alice the chance to say goodbye to Angelo and the other hotel staff members she had grown fond of.
Her mother clearly hadn’t recovered from the previous evening’s events, her bitterness freezing the surroundings during their journey like a block of ice. The difference now was that Alice didn’t care. She had been lonely before Kit and Nellie and Katherine . . . and she could withstand it again. So, she ignored her mother and read a cookbook Franconi had recommended, making notes in the margins of things she would like to try, ingredients to add.
Their butler, James, opened the door, and two footmen hurried down the walk to deal with the luggage. James pulled the door wide. “Madam, miss. I trust you had a nice—”
“Is he in?” her mother snapped, cutting off whatever James had been about to say.
“Yes, madam. He received your telegram and is waiting in his study.”
This was news to Alice. Were they speaking of her father? “Hello, James. You are looking well.”
“Hello, miss.” The butler smiled down at her, a rare break of emotion for the usually stoic man. “It is nice to have you home.”
Mama had already left for Daddy’s study, so Alice leaned in. “You just missed my lemon poppyseed cake.”
“I did,” James said. “No one makes it better, miss.”
The compliment thawed out a tiny piece of her battered heart. “I’ll make you some this afternoon.”
“But . . .” His eyes darted to where her mother had disappeared. “She won’t like that.”
“It doesn’t matter anymore, James. It really doesn’t matter.”
His salt-and-pepper eyebrows flew up. “I see. New York has certainly done you some good, then.”
Her chest tightened, the pain from last night nearly sending her to her knees. But James didn’t need to hear all that, not at the moment. “I should go and see Daddy before she gets him riled up.”
“Your father instructed me to send you to the kitchen instead.”
Daddy didn’t wish to see her? And why would she go downstairs now? “I don’t understand.”
James lowered his voice. “He said that he and your mother had things to discuss and you should go to the kitchen until they were finished.”
Alice’s shoulders fell. “At least I can start on the poppyseed cake, I suppose.”
“Now, don’t look so glum, miss.” He gave her a nod. “It’ll all work itself out.”
Alice tried for a smile but couldn’t really muster the enthusiasm. She’d lost her reputation, her friends . . . Kit. Nothing would ever be the same. “Thank you, James.”
A few minutes later, she approached the kitchen. In a booming voice, Chef Point, their French cook, was giving direction to the kitchen maids and other staff. He wasn’t as keen to teach Alice, not like Angelo, but she badgered him often enough that he relented every now and ag
ain. “Bonjour, Chef,” she called upon entering—and then stopped in her tracks.
Kit was in the kitchen. This kitchen, here in Boston. In her home.
And he was covered in flour.
What on earth . . . ?
She blinked, certain she was hallucinating. The kitchen grew quiet, but she could only focus on Kit, who froze at the workbench, a pastry brush in his hand. “Damn. You’re early,” was all he said.
“What are you doing here?”
The side of his mouth hitched sheepishly. “Making you babka.” He held up the brush and a small dish. “I was just glazing it now.”
The kitchen staff trickled out of the room until only she and Kit remained. Alice drew closer to the workbench. “Yes, but why? And how?”
“I cabled Mrs. Berman and she sent instructions. Chef Point helped me locate all the ingredients.”
She peeked into the bread tins. A bit flat, but otherwise two perfectly shaped loaves. “But this takes hours. How long have you been here?”
“I took the first train up from New York City. I arrived around nine-thirty.”
“Does my father know you are here?”
“Yes.” He didn’t elaborate, and the questions multiplied inside her mind. Was this why her father had sent her downstairs upon her arrival? What had Daddy and Kit discussed?
“And my father didn’t have a problem with you coming to bake in our kitchen?”
“No. He seemed quite entertained by the prospect.”
She rubbed her forehead. “I still don’t understand why you’re here and . . . baking.”
He set the brush down. “You once said that food makes memories. That it’s like love on a plate. And I believe it because I remember this bread, that particular evening, as the moment I fell in love with you. I saw you in a completely different light, as this competent and bossy—and incredibly alluring—woman. I’ve never wanted anyone more than when you sucked sugar off your finger. I tried to run, tried to deny what was happening, but that was the instant I was gone for you, Alice Lusk.”
She gripped the thick wooden top of the table, her mouth dry. Words eluded her. “Kit . . .”
For a brief second, he appeared insecure, a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. A chink in his rakish armor. “So what better way to prove I love you than to make this bread for you?” He slid one of the tins forward. “Why don’t you cut a slice?”
“It’s too hot. It needs to cool for at least twenty minutes.”
“I really can’t wait that long.” Holding the tin with a cloth, he tipped the hot loaf onto the tabletop and reached for the bread knife.
“Wait.” She came around to his side of the workbench and put a hand out to stop him. “You’ll ruin that bread if you cut it now.”
He sighed and placed the knife down. “Alice, there’s something in the bread.”
“I don’t understand. What do you mean?”
“There’s something in the bread.”
“Repeating the words doesn’t make the meaning any clearer, unfortunately.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” He glanced at the ceiling. “My mother’s ring is in the bread, Alice.”
A . . . ring? Was he serious? One peek at his somber and—dare she say it?—terrified eyes gave her the answer. Kit was indeed serious.
Taking the cloth to protect his hands, he lifted the entire loaf into his palms and dropped to one knee. “Alice, I love you madly. Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
It was even better than she’d dreamed. Kit loved her and wanted to marry her. He’d baked for her. Fresh tears welled and panic crossed Kit’s face as he watched them fall. He asked, “Are those happy tears . . . or rejection tears?”
“Happy. Definitely happy.” She leaned down and kissed him briefly on the mouth. “Yes, I will marry you.”
Standing, he crushed her to him with one arm and took her mouth in a deep kiss. She kissed him back eagerly, her fingers digging into his coat to pull him closer while her mind spun. She would never tire of this, their undeniable connection. They had an effect on the other that defied logic, that would confuse most anyone else. But not her. She understood him and the same could be said in reverse. He had helped her to discover so much about herself . . . and they weren’t done yet, apparently.
She felt as if he deserved a warning, though. There was every chance her parents would not approve. She broke off and tried to catch her breath. “We may need to elope.”
“No, we won’t. Your father gave me his blessing this morning.”
“He did? What did you tell him?”
Kit stroked his knuckles across her cheek. “I told him the truth. That I fell in love with you and would find a way to marry you, whether he approved or not. I think it was baking you bread that sealed the deal, though.”
“What about your supper club?”
“I was able to postpone the story until tomorrow morning. Whatever happens, we’ll face it together.”
She liked the sound of that. She wiped a smudge of flour off his cheek. “The club will be successful. You’ll find a way, Kit.”
“Would you like to be our head chef?”
Was he drunk again? “What about the scandal? People won’t take the club seriously with a female chef.”
“First, I like scandal. And second, the only person who takes me seriously is you. So let them underestimate us, my love. It’ll be that much sweeter when we become wildly popular. You deserve this, Alice. With your talent, you could work in any kitchen in the country, but I’d be honored if you chose mine.”
It was everything she’d ever wanted. Her own kitchen, a loving husband. She felt like the luckiest woman in America. “Then yes, I would love to be the head chef.”
He dragged her flush to his frame, where she could feel every hard bit of him against her body. “Good, because I believe we will be spending a lot of time in my office going over details.”
Desire unwound in her belly at his husky promise, and she shivered as she thought about all the things he had left to teach her.
“Are you cold?” he asked, drawing away slightly.
“Not in the least. Just considering how we will fill all those long nights ahead, Professor Ward.”
His grin turned positively predatory. “I’m certain we’ll come up with something. You always were a very diligent student.”
Rising up on her toes, she wrapped her arms around his neck. “I do like to impress the teacher.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Gotham Supper Club
One Year Later
Kit pushed through the swinging door that led into his wife’s domain. In other words, the kitchen. He found her at the range, sprinkling something green into a cream sauce. “My love, the ladies are growing restless. I am slightly afraid to go back out there.”
Alice’s mouth curved. “They adore you.”
“And who could blame them? However, they do get quite rowdy when they are hungry.”
Each month, Alice cooked a five-course luncheon for ladies only. This was the single day of the month when just women were allowed in the supper club, and Alice invited various groups to come and dine. Suffragettes, radicals, political wives and actresses, women of every color and social status, all sitting side by side to enjoy Alice’s cooking. His wife often said that nothing could bring people together better than food.
He loved to watch her work in here, in total command and so very smart. Thanks to her innovation and talent, the supper club had sold all its memberships, despite some early grumblings about a woman chef. Kit hadn’t paid them any attention. Alice’s food spoke for itself and, as he predicted, the brouhaha died down once people tasted her creations. There wasn’t an empty seat to be had in the dining room when the place was open.
“Where are you with plating?” Alice asked over her shoulder.
Her first assistant and Mrs. Henry’s daughter, Opal, was busy preparing the tiny plates of oyster vol-au-vent. “Nearly ready, Mère Ward.”
&
nbsp; Kit hid his grin. The title of mère was used in France for female professional cooks, and Alice’s staff had adopted it because she refused to let them call her “chef.”
“Kit, darling. As much as I like you hovering under normal circumstances, you are in my way at the moment.” Alice gently moved him aside and transferred the heavy pan from the range onto the counter. She and Opal began spooning the oyster mixture into the pastry cups, while Alice continued to give instructions to the rest of the kitchen staff. Good thing she’d been training Opal to run the kitchen, because she would soon be unavailable.
After summoning the waiters to deliver the food, Kit leaned over and whispered, “I’ll leave you alone for now. But you are mine after everyone leaves.”
Alice bit her lip and shook her head. “Do not distract me. I need to concentrate.”
Raising his hands in surrender, he left the kitchen and went to his office. He’d wait there while looking through paperwork. When he burst through the door, he came to an abrupt halt. Preston was seated in Kit’s chair, feet up on the desk, while Harrison lounged in an armchair. Both were smoking cigars and looking quite at home. “Have I missed an invitation?”
“No,” Harrison said. “You never invite us here, though I haven’t the faintest idea why.”
“Exactly,” Preston agreed. “And I am part owner, for Christ’s sake.”
“Because the club requires paying members with cachet.” Kit went over and lifted a fresh cigar out of the holder on the desk. “Neither of you qualify.”
“I have plenty of cachet.” Preston tossed Kit a lighter. “Or have you forgotten who ultimately convinced Hearst to kill that story about your wife?”
“Yes, fine. You have cachet. This one”—he pointed at Harrison—“is only accepted at social events because his wife is a minor sporting celebrity.”
“A sporting celebrity who is never home,” Harrison grumbled as he checked his pocket watch. “I’m leaving in two hours for Cincinnati where I’ll finally meet up with her.”
“Then why are you here?”