“I quite agree,” he found himself saying, before he remembered that she was his opponent, the woman single-handedly depleting his fortune and turning his business into an agrarian charity.
But as he stared at the trifle and the thick topping of sumptuous ice cream, Elias knew he would not regain his common sense until this heady experience of taste and smell was behind him, until Lady Harriet rose and declared the dinner over and he could prevail upon her to continue the discussion in more neutral territory.
Someone with the improbable name of Celestial had prepared the food, but Lady Harriet had obviously supervised every dish. Elias could not help but admire a woman with such skill. Though she had swathed herself in black bombazine — a concession to mourning, perhaps, though Freddy had been dead a full year — he found himself wondering how she would look in a different gown. One that, like the Turkish apricots adorning that ice cream, complemented a more sensual essence.
In the bakery, her reddish-brown hair had formed an appealing tangle of curls. Tonight it was tamed into an unflattering bun that, with that dreary black frock, made her look hopelessly austere. Austere did not suit her. No, the woman in the bakery had an earthier appeal, as if she knew what it was to run barefoot through a meadow, hair fanning out from her flushed face, blue eyes reflecting the glory of a clear sky.
Yet there was nothing coarse about her. Elias realized that now. Even in that flour-dusted apron, she had carried herself with quiet assurance, her eyes reflecting a calm self-possession. But something about her hinted of hidden currents beneath those still waters.
What had she said? That she was her own mistress, that Freddy had been entitled to do as he wished, that she had a “most open mind” about masculine behavior. Slowly, Elias began to wonder about Lady Harriet’s marriage.
Whatever “unhealthy pursuits” in which Freddy had been engaged — and Elias could guess at some of them — had Lady Harriet sanctioned them so that she could enjoy a similar freedom? His eyes narrowed assessingly. Beneath that dreadful gown and constricted bun was a woman who understood appetites. Perhaps all sorts of appetites.
Might there be another way around his difficulty with her? He inhaled deeply, savoring the bouquet of the fine Madeira. When it came to dealing with females, he had never possessed much drawing room charm. He was not one for empty flattery and pretty compliments. Still, how difficult could it be to persuade one woman — a lonely widow at that — to entrust her share of the business into wiser, more skilled hands? Of the two partners in Westwood Imports, Elias had always been the one to make the hard decisions and to execute them ruthlessly. Yet ruthlessness need not always mean outright confrontation. Sometimes an oblique approach was more effective.
There was no doubt Lady Harriet needed a firm hand. Sooner or later she would see the wisdom of ceding the business decisions to him. But perhaps he could afford to be patient.
To be sure, there were worthy distractions to help pass the time. Indeed, he had just consumed one of them. Elias placed his napkin on the table. “I do not know when I have had a more delicious meal.”
“Thank you.” She looked briefly amused, then wary. Perhaps she distrusted compliments. He must remember that. It would not do to overplay his hand.
“Would you favor me with a turn in the garden?” he asked. “A rich meal ought to be followed by a bit of exercise.”
She hesitated.
“You might call your maid to accompany us if you prefer,” he added quickly.
She gave him an easy smile. “Heavenly would jump at the chance, but I do not need a chaperon. ’Tis merely that I must rise very early tomorrow to see to things at the bakery, and I confess I am rather tired. But by all means, let us take the night air. The garden is lovely in the evening.”
Elias did not know who Heavenly was, but the image of Lady Harriet toiling in the village bakery jarred anew. “Most women of your station do not occupy themselves in such pursuits,” he observed, striving for a neutral tone, as she led them out of the house and past a stoned-lined flowerbed and terrace.
She slanted a gaze at him. “Yes, my friend Mrs. Tanksley is forever telling me so.”
At least there was one voice of reason, Elias thought.
“But I pay her no mind,” Lady Harriet went on. “She does not understand the pleasure — indeed the complete gratification — I find in my shop.”
Beyond the terrace, lanterns illuminated a path that opened into a large, sprawling garden. Elias found it useful to focus on that, rather than Lady Harriet’s odd declaration. He noticed a profusion of erect green plants and inhaled deeply, glad for the distraction.
“Mint,” he observed. But there was more, he realized. “Savory as well. Thyme over in that direction, rosemary under that ornamental cherry.”
Lady Harriet stared at him. “Are you a gardener, my lord?”
He waved a dismissive hand. “Merely cursed — or gifted, I suppose — with a heightened sense of smell. It has been useful in my business.”
She regarded him with interest. “You identified my herbs perfectly — those I use in the kitchen, anyway. Celestial planted them, along with a few others I cannot name which she uses to treat various ailments.”
“I find it most untoward that you run a bake shop,” he said bluntly — only belatedly recalling that he intended to avoid outright confrontation.
Instantly, her expression tightened. She walked ahead of him to maneuver around a bush that intruded into the walk. Then she turned to him. “Bread is the very essence of nourishment, my lord,” she said. “It is a gift of the land, as much as those spices you cultivate.”
“Nonsense,” he said. “I can pluck a pepper from a bush, dry it out, grind it into powder, pack it in a container and ship it far and wide. You cannot compare that to a loaf of bread.”
She regarded him pityingly. “Just as your process creates a spice, mine grinds grain into flour, adds water and a yeast broth, transforming it into dough. With time and heat its diverse elements are joined in glorious harmony. There is no difference between my process and yours. Except that mine is uplifting, perhaps even spiritual.”
“Running a bakery is commerce, and commerce is not for gently bred females,” he insisted.
“Or gentlemen?” she rejoined. “Come, my lord. Peers of the realm do not engage in commerce either. Has no one pointed that out to you?”
Perhaps he had deserved that, Elias thought. “A peerage, Lady Harriet, is deuced expensive to maintain.”
She regarded him with a thin smile. “I see. Your thriving spice business keeps the wolf from the door and thus is a necessary evil in the service of your title. I do not criticize you for conducting such commerce, so I cannot imagine why you feel free to criticize me for working in my own bakery.”
Elias regarded her. “Surely, Freddy did not allow you to engage in such activities when he was alive.”
“I never presumed to tell my husband what to do, and he never presumed to tell me,” she said coolly. “We had an egalitarian marriage. I see no more reason to restrict my behavior as a widow than I did as a wife.”
The Duke of Sidenham must have demanded monstrous promises from Freddy in exchange for Lady Harriet’s hand, Elias decided. He could not imagine any other reason a husband would allow his wife such outlandish freedom.
“I did not intend to bring up painful memories,” he said. “You are still in mourning.”
“I was never in mourning,” she corrected. “I do not believe in mourning the dead when one can be celebrating the living.”
That took him aback.
“You wear black,” he pointed out carefully. Each topic of conversation seemed to send him further into a maze in which every turn opened into a thicket of thorns.
Lady Harriet looked down at her gown. “Oh, this. This was for you.”
Elias blinked.
“Silly of me, was it not?” she said. Was that a flush on her features? “I suppose I did not want to appear too...” She hesitated.
He waited.
“Too feminine — I suppose that is the proper word,” she said. “I have no interest in being perceived as flirtatious or womanly.” She eyed him speculatively. “There are men who would exploit that.”
Lady Harriet’s quiver contained quite a few arrows, Elias reflected. So that stern fabric she wore was a weapon. He wondered anew how she might look in a gown that was less austere. But the image his mind’s eye gave him was not of some lush, revealing ball gown. Instead, it was of her in the bake shop, with smudges of flour on her face, elbow deep in kneading her dough. Strangely, it was a far more arresting image.
When he did not respond, she laughed softly. “Come now, my lord. I know that your only purpose in coming here was to call me to account, to persuade me to turn my part of the business over to you. If it suits me to don bombazine armor, who are you to challenge that?” Her mouth twitched in amusement.
Elias opened his mouth to respond, but she waved a dismissive hand. “Nay, do not deny it. You must own that your intention is to persuade me to let go of my shares, and, failing that, to try to control what I do with them. Indeed, you have said as much.”
“’Tis obvious, madam, that you have no ability for managing finances,” he returned. “But I would happily leave you to your spendthrift ways were it not my money you were so eagerly spending.”
“Our money,” she corrected.
It was perhaps time for a change in strategy.
“I am a man of business,” Elias said carefully. “And I confess to some impatience to settle the business matters between us satisfactorily.”
“By which you refer to your satisfaction,” she said.
“I am not incapable of objectivity, Lady Harriet.”
She studied him. “As to that, I expect we shall see.” Unexpectedly, she smiled. “I am not your enemy, Lord Westwood.”
“Perhaps not,” he conceded. “But you are exasperating, madam. And that bombazine is a crime against nature.”
Her brow furrowed.
Good God. Had he actually spoken those words aloud? Elias cleared his throat. “That was excessively familiar. I regret —”
Her sudden smile caught him by surprise. “I am certain I should tap you roundly with my fan or blush prettily, but I do not possess such skills.”
The smile transformed her features. Her upturned lips and twinkling blue eyes banished all thought of that unforgiving black material, and Elias found he could not quite take his gaze from her face.
“In truth,” she added with a sigh, “although I am at ease in large groups, I do not have the slightest idea how to entertain a solitary gentleman. I do not even own a fan.”
Into what foreign territory were they venturing? Elias wondered. Neither his military training nor his commercial endeavors had taught him how to deal with an opponent who possessed Lady Harriet’s unnerving candor.
“As to that,” he heard himself saying, “you have entertained me quite adequately, and we have only just met so I imagine that your ability is quite, er, passable.” He managed a game smile.
It was too dim in the garden to tell whether his ham-handed compliment had made her blush. Indeed, the path toward persuading Lady Harriet to comply with his wishes was suddenly less clear. It was as if his target had shifted or changed shape. Certainly, it had become more interesting. Yes, perhaps he could afford to bide his time. The caper sauce alone was worth it.
They had now come round to the beginning of their walk. It was time for him to take his leave. Elias made her a deep bow. “I am in your debt, for the exquisite meal. We will continue our business discussions on another occasion.”
“Yes, I expect we shall,” she said.
Elias quickly took his leave. Dinner might be over but the evening would linger in his memory. He needed to ponder that very unsettling fact.
***
“Now, Squire, we have covered this ground. I have no intention of selling you the mill.” Exasperated, Harriet pushed a rebellious strand of hair away from her face with the back of her hand, the only part not covered in flour. It was just like Cedric Gibbs to show up when she was distracted by the vagaries of her new sourdough culture.
“But, Harriet,” he protested, “Freddy never meant to keep the thing. He was to offer me a chance to buy it back at the first opportunity. Had he not died so suddenly —”
“Nevertheless he did,” she interrupted, “and he never said a word to me about returning the mill to you.”
His face reddened. “Nonsense. That was his wish.”
“You had let it sink into the most deplorable state,” she continued, “whereas I am happy to make the necessary repairs. It is much better off in my hands. The village needs a working mill.”
Cedric’s florid face made him look rather unwell, Harriet observed. The man was not much above middle age, but, like his mill, had deteriorated. He was overly fond of drink and it showed in his mottled complexion and a rather rotund form that was clearly unaccustomed to any physical exertion besides lifting a pint. Still, his lot was not an easy one. He’d lost his wife several years ago, and had a number of young children. But Cedric made things worse with his grating disposition and temper. The man had offended just about everyone in Worthington at one time or another.
Monica Tanksley insisted that losing the mill to Freddy had improved Cedric’s character. He had been rather amiable lately, but Harriet suspected it was all for show. The squire’s family had controlled the mill for decades and made a comfortable living by charging people enormous sums to grind their grain. Though Harriet allowed him to use the mill for free — as she did all of her neighbors — she knew he would not be satisfied until the mill returned to his ownership.
His latest tactic was to try to woo her for it. He had not yet worked himself up to an offer, but it was only a matter of time. His sudden appearance in the bakery this morning, when she was alone, did not bode well.
“Please excuse me,” Harriet said briskly, turning her attention to her worktable, where a large tub of her culture bubbled happily. She loved her table. It was white oak, the same material from which the mill was constructed, and it was long enough to hold as many tubs and loaves as she liked. “I have work to do.”
“My work has become considerably lighter without my mill,” he responded acidly.
“Yes, and a great deal less profitable, since you are not able to charge twice the going rate.”
Cedric regarded her through narrowed, bloodshot eyes. “With all due respect, Harriet, you have not lived in this community for a lifetime, as I have. I am a fair man. Anyone who could not pay their shot had no trouble finding credit with me.”
“For triple interest,” she pointed out.
His color deepened. “I would certainly consider your suggestions for revising my fees,” he said magnanimously, though the bulging vein at his temple betrayed how much that statement cost him.
Harriet eyed him sharply. “That is pure blather, Cedric. We both know that you have not the least interest in doing so. You are only saying what you think I wish to hear.”
“Are you calling me a liar, Harriet?” he demanded.
She sighed heavily and returned her attention to the culture. It was unusually pungent, a good sign.
“Bloody blazes!” he snarled.
Harriet scarcely heard him, focused as she was on the bubbling mass. Lady Hester Stanhope, with whom she had developed a friendship several years ago in London, had recently sent her several dried cultures from her travels. This one was Egyptian. She wondered how long the Egyptians had allowed the mixture to ferment before deeming it ready to use. Too short a time and the mix would not develop the sour flavor she was after; too long and the culture would lose its power to make the bread rise sufficiently.
“It may suit you to pretend that you have no use for men, but you are not fooling me,” he insisted. “Women need to be shown the correct path in life.”
Harriet was only vaguely aware that he had spoken. Her fi
rst attempt to produce the Egyptian sourdough had resulted in a brick-like loaf unsuitable for anything but the crows. But she was determined to succeed. It would be nice to serve something special for dinner, when the Tanksleys would join them. Perhaps she would even invite Lord Westwood, though the man’s snobbery was certainly off-putting.
Her instincts told her the culture was almost ready. It was time to mix the dough.
“You have been a year without a man — far too long,” Cedric was saying. “I can give you a ready-made family: eight children, all in need of a woman’s touch, what with my Hilda gone these four years. With your money and the only working mill for fifteen miles, we will be quite secure.”
Whatever was he talking about? Harriet wondered, her thoughts occupied with plans for the dinner. Lord Westwood seemed to appreciate adventurous cooking. To be sure, he was an annoying man, but she had found herself softening — slightly — toward him last night.
“The Gibbs name is a good one. You may be well-born, but you are not above manual labor,” he said approvingly, surveying the shop. “You would do well to take a page from Hilda, God rest her. She was as eager to please as a good sheepdog. Never ran on at the mouth like a man, never criticized.”
So intent was Harriet’s concentration that she did not realize Cedric had moved around to her side of the table. “Yes, Harriet, I do believe it is time that I took you in hand.”
His large hand clamped down on her shoulder, startling her into a little shriek.
“Now, Harriet,” he said in a soothing tone, “there is no need to be coy. I know how lonely a bed can be.”
“You will remove your hand from my person,” Harriet said firmly, tamping down a vague feeling of alarm. She had risen early so as to have the bakery to herself this morning. She had always considered Cedric quite harmless, but there did seem to be an intensity about him this morning.
Instead, Cedric pulled her closer. Harriet cringed as his face neared hers. The man’s breath would fell an oak. “Stop it, sir, this instant!”
“No need to play the reluctant virgin,” he said thickly. “You have been a married lady. You can trust me with your deepest desires.”
Reforming Harriet Page 3