Secret Desires of a Gentleman

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  “If one can go by appearances, your experiment was a success.”

  “Appearance is a vital component, to be sure, but taste is what matters most.” On impulse, she picked up one of the confections between her thumb and forefinger and turned toward him. “Would you care to be the judge?” she asked and lifted the petit four to his lips.

  He hesitated the barest second before taking the petit four into his mouth. As he tasted it, she realized to her surprise that she wanted him to like it. That made no sense, really, for she thought she’d stopped caring what Phillip thought years ago. Nonetheless, she found herself waiting for his opinion with an anxiousness that was all out of proportion. “Well?” she asked, unable to discern anything from his expression. “What do you think?”

  “My God,” he mumbled around the mouthful of cake and ice cream, and the reverent tone of his voice told its own tale.

  She began to laugh, relieved and more pleased than she would have thought possible. “You like them.”

  He chewed slowly, savoring the bite of chocolate cake and mint flavored ice cream to the fullest extent. “Like them?” he countered after he’d swallowed the treat. “Woman, they are absolutely wicked. Sinful. By law, they shouldn’t be allowed. If what you gave my chef is in any way comparable, I’m not surprised you have him in rhapsodies.”

  Given such lavish praise from a man whose good opinion was so hard to earn, she had to sample her new concoction as well. She picked up one of the treats with great care—for they were starting to soften and melt—and put it into her mouth.

  “Not bad,” she judged after a moment, and helped herself to another. This time, she considered and judged the contrasting tastes and textures as she chewed and swallowed. “I might make some of these for the ball. Although,” she added as she looked down at her hands, “I shall have to put them on a bed of crushed ice unless I want all your guests to have chocolate-covered fingers.”

  “Not just their fingers.”

  “What do you mean?” She looked up and found that he was smiling at her, a wide, wholehearted smile that made her breath catch in her throat. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen Phillip smile like that. As a boy, perhaps, though even then, it had been a rare thing—a grin of approval for a well-played cricket match or a clever chess play. But the smile on his face now was not the smile of the boy she remembered. This was the smile of a devastatingly handsome man, and she felt an unexpected rush of pleasure at the sight of it.

  “Why—” For no reason she could identify, her voice failed her. She took a deep breath and tried again. “Why are you smiling like that?”

  “You have a smear of chocolate on your face.”

  “I do?” She reached for a damp rag from the worktable and looked up at him. “Where?”

  “Right there.” He lifted one hand, lightly touching the tip of his finger to one corner of her mouth to indicate the appropriate spot. But then, his smile vanished, and his palm cupped her cheek.

  The rag fluttered from her hand, forgotten, as his thumb grazed her lips to rub away the dab of chocolate. The contact was so unexpected, so intimate, so unlike Phillip, her lips parted in surprise.

  His thumb pressed hard against her mouth, as if he expected a protest and was silencing her before she could utter it, but she was so stunned that it never occurred to her to protest.

  Phillip was touching her. Phillip, who never did anything improper, who never stepped outside the bounds. Phillip, who thought her a fast little piece and wanted her banished to the farthest corner of the globe. Phillip was touching her. It was so unbelievable, she didn’t know what to do.

  His fingers curled around the nape of her neck and his thumb pressed the underside of her jaw, lifting her face. His free arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her hard against him. She sucked in a startled breath, but she had no time to react before he bent his head and captured her lips with his.

  The kiss was not tender. It was hard and hot, bruising her mouth, and yet, she felt a thrill like nothing she’d ever felt in her life before.

  She closed her eyes, and her lips parted beneath the demanding pressure of his. When his tongue entered her mouth, she made a sound of shock, stirring in his hold, but his hand tightened at her neck and his arm tightened around her waist, keeping her body pressed to his as his mouth tasted deeply of her.

  She had been kissed before, but not like this, never like this. Her shock began to recede, and she became aware of other things. The strength of his arms like a steel band around her, the scent of bay rum on his skin, the sound of her own heart thudding in her breast, the taste of crème de menthe and chocolate on his tongue.

  She flattened her palms against him, and beneath the slick-silken texture of his waistcoat and the crisp starched linen of his shirt, she could feel the hard muscles of his chest, and she wondered if his heart was beating as hard and fast as hers.

  The lush taste of his mouth was sending a strange pleasure spreading throughout her body, a thick, dark wave of pleasure that made her body move against his in a way she could not control, a way that must surely be shameless, but it felt so glorious, she didn’t care. She wanted this kiss to go on forever.

  Without warning, he tore his lips from hers, an abrupt, almost violent withdrawal that forced her to open her eyes.

  “Good God.” He jerked her arms down from around his neck and shoved her away as if she burned like fire. “What am I doing?”

  “I think—” Maria stopped and took a deep breath, trying to get her bearings. “I think you were kissing me,” she said and gave a little laugh of surprise.

  He stared at her as if appalled. “What is it?” he muttered, raking a hand through his hair. “What is it about you that makes me do such stupid things?”

  If he’d grabbed her cup from the table and tossed her tea dregs in her face, he couldn’t have more thoroughly ruined the moment. “Well, thank you very much,” she shot back, stung, all her exhilaration evaporating. “So kissing me is stupid? Is that what you mean?”

  “It’s more than stupid.” He rubbed his hands over his face. “It’s insane. You make me do things that go against my honor, against my reason, even against my will.”

  “Make you?” she echoed in disbelief. “Of all the absurd, unfair—” She broke off, spluttering with anger, and it was several moments before she could speak again. “I didn’t make you kiss me! I was just standing here!”

  “Whatever you do, it makes me insane.” He glared at her, his resentment palpable. “A few centuries ago, they’d have burned you as a witch.”

  “Oh, yes, that explains everything. I’m a witch, and I wove a spell over you.” She waved her fingers in front of his face in a mocking imitation of hypnotism, then stopped and snapped her fingers. “No, wait, it wasn’t a spell. It was the petit fours! In them was my secret, magical love potion.”

  “Love?” He repeated the word with disdain, his gaze raking over her. “I assure you, Miss Martingale, love has nothing to do with this!”

  That contemptuous declaration was the last straw. She pointed to the door. “I want you to leave. Now.”

  “An excellent idea.” He turned away, heading for the door. “I never should have come down here in the first place.”

  “I couldn’t agree more!” she called after him.

  He seized his hat and left without a reply, without even a backward glance. Hands on her hips, Maria scowled at the door as it swung shut behind him, feeling more insulted than she’d ever felt in her life.

  How dare he imply that any of what had just happened was her fault? He’d come down here, made advances upon her person, and insulted her. And then, he’d had the gall to blame her for his behavior? Of all the nerve.

  Love has nothing to do with this.

  His words echoed back to her, and with them, she remembered the disdain in his eyes, sparking not only her anger, but also an unmistakable hurt. It hurt, damn it, to know that even after he’d given her the most extraordinary kiss of her
life, he still thought her beneath his contempt. Suddenly, she felt as if she were fifteen again, watching him turn his back on her and walk away.

  How galling to know that his low opinion of her still had the power to sting. It shouldn’t, not after all this time. What did she care what he thought of her? Hell, she didn’t even like him anymore. At moments like this, it was hard to remember that she ever had liked him. And despite that wonderful kiss, he didn’t like her. He’d made that painfully clear.

  Her eyes narrowed on the closed door. So, he thought he was insane for kissing her, did he?

  He wasn’t insane. He was insufferable.

  He was insane. That was the only possible explanation for his unaccountable behavior. Phillip let himself into his house, shoved his latchkey into his pocket, and strode across the foyer, baffled. He was a gentleman, but he had just behaved in a way that violated every notion of what that meant. Always before, whenever his desire for her flared up, he’d been able to control it, suppress it, will it away. Not this time.

  He’d only gone down there in the first place to give her the damn menu, he thought as he started up the stairs to his bedroom. Best to do it right then, he’d decided when he’d seen her lamps burning, before he forgot about it altogether and it ended up in the laundry basket.

  He knew he should have simply sent a footman, but if he had done that, he wouldn’t have been able to see her. Phillip halted on the landing with an aggravated sigh. Why not admit it? The menu was the lame excuse he’d given himself to go to her.

  She’d been on his mind all evening. Everything tonight had reminded him of her. Dinner at the Clarendon, her former place of employment, where there had been a bowl of fat red apples on the table and a friend had ordered chocolate tart for dessert. Then later, chess at his club, where he’d lost the match because he’d been thinking of her, remembering all the times they had played, missing those companionable days. A moment in the smoking room, when he’d started to light a cigar, only to change his mind when the image of her on the balcony in her nightdress had come into his mind.

  And then, arriving home to find her lamps lit; and like a moth drawn to a flame, like a compass needle veering north, he’d turned toward her door instead of his.

  With each step down to her kitchen, he’d known he was making a mistake. He’d known he was pushing his self-restraint to its limits. But he’d done it anyway, almost as if to test his mettle, to prove to himself that he was perfectly capable of resisting her.

  How wrong he had been.

  The skin of her cheek had been as silky as he’d imagined. Her lips, sticky with chocolate, had been so sweet to taste. Even now, he could still smell the vanilla and cinnamon fragrance of her hair. And her body…God. His throat went dry as he remembered the feel of her pressed against him, her breasts against his chest, the deep curve of her waist beneath his arm, the stirring of her hips against his own. It had been beyond anything he’d ever conjured about her in his imagination, beyond the fevered dreams he’d had of her when he was seventeen.

  How he’d come to his senses tonight, he still didn’t know. The sound of traffic on the street, perhaps, or the chime of a clock upstairs. Something had brought back a vestige of his sanity, enough to remember that they were in a lighted room, visible to anyone passing by, enough to remember that he was a marquess and a gentleman, and that she was a respectable woman now technically in his employ.

  If she were a courtesan, he could have her and be done. If she were a lady, he could marry her, have her, and be done. But she was neither, and that was the damnable part of it all.

  He felt a wave of frustration. Absurd that he should be so preoccupied with her. Absurd that an ordinary woman—yes, for despite his accusation, she was not a witch, but a perfectly ordinary woman—should be able to get him so stirred up. She was pretty, to be sure, but he’d bedded more beautiful women in his life. She was nowhere near his equal in birth, station, or connection, and therefore unworthy of a more permanent alliance. Which was why, he reminded himself, he’d saved his brother from her all those years ago.

  Twelve years, he reminded himself, jerking at his cravat. The idea that she should be able to obsess his thoughts, inflame his desire, and overcome his will even after all this time was humiliating.

  Tonight, one taste of her had not slaked his appetite. Quite the opposite, in fact. He wanted her now more than ever before, but what was true years ago was still true today. He could not give in to his desire for her, he reminded himself as he continued upstairs, or he would dishonor them both and disgrace his family name.

  Kissing her had been a huge mistake, and he knew he could not repeat it. He had to stay away from her. Far wiser to avoid temptation altogether than to test his ability to resist it. While he prided himself on his strength of will and his self-control, when it came to Maria Martingale, it was best not to push his luck.

  Chapter 10

  What are little girls made of? Sugar and spice and everything nice.

  English nursery rhyme

  As the May Day Ball approached, Maria had little time to think of Phillip, but that didn’t stop him from stealing into her thoughts, and every time he did, she became aggravated once more, with him and with herself.

  It wasn’t as if she didn’t have plenty to do. Her business was thriving, her apprentices, though coming along, were still in constant need of training, and she was in the midst of preparations for the ball. Yet, during the ten days that followed that kiss, the scorching intensity of it and the infuriating events afterward came back to haunt her at least a dozen times a day.

  She’d never known a kiss could be like that, so hot and provocative, so erotic, and she realized there was far more to Phillip than the cool, impassive composure he displayed on the surface.

  The sputtering of air from the now-empty pastry bag in her hands brought her out of her reverie, and Maria reached for the bowl of sponge batter beside her. She refilled the bag, and as she continued piping batter onto a parchment-lined baking tray, her mind returned to something far more fascinating than the making of ladyfingers.

  Baffling that a man who had such a low opinion of her could make her feel this way. She’d still been caught up in the euphoric haze of the moment, her lips tingling from the luscious sensation of his mouth on hers, when he’d proceeded to ruin the most passionate moment of her life.

  So why, she wondered in aggravation, was she wasting a moment of her time thinking about him and mooning over a kiss that he hadn’t even found enjoyable? Why, in the quiet hours before dawn, did she keep glancing at her kitchen door, hoping he would come by? Maybe she was the one who was insane.

  Maria set down the pastry bag and flexed her cramped hands, glancing about the kitchen and trying to force her mind to something else. The ball was a mere thirty hours away, and things were a bit chaotic in the kitchens. She’d brought in two additional cooks and four kitchen maids from Lucy’s agency to help with the final preparations, and all around her, women were hard at work. Across the worktable from her, her apprentices were making truffles, and she watched as Miss Hayes rolled the chocolate balls in cocoa, and Miss Dexter decorated them with pink roses. Maria frowned, thoughts of Phillip vanishing in the wake of more immediate concerns.

  “No, Miss Dexter, not roses!” she cried. “These truffles are for the ball. The flavoring in them is lavender, not rose water! The decoration needs to be a lavender flower. For heaven’s sake, the menu is right here,” she added in exasperation, jabbing a finger at the sheet of paper in the center of the table. “It might behoove you to read it. The ball is tomorrow night, you know.”

  The room was suddenly silent. Miss Dexter’s round, pretty face puckered under the withering criticism she had just received. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” she whispered and ducked her head, but not before Maria saw the tears glistening in her eyes.

  Maria’s conscience smote her. “Oh, hell,” she muttered, and pressed four fingers to her forehead. What on earth was wrong with her? She had
just humiliated a member of her staff in front of others, and for no good reason. How many times, she wondered, had André berated her in this same obnoxious manner just before a big event? How many times had she vowed that when she had her own establishment, she would never do that to a member of her staff? She took a deep breath and raised her head.

  “My apologies, Miss Dexter,” she said. “I had no call to speak so sharply. Forgive me.”

  Relief caused the tears to spill over. “Yes, ma’am. Oh, ma’am, I am sorry. I know the chocolates for the ball need to be just right. I’ll do the flowers again.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” she answered. “They’ll do fine as they are. But if you would be so kind as to finish these ladyfingers for me, I would appreciate it.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Maria reached behind her and yanked at her apron strings. “I shall be back in a short while,” she said and gave the two younger women a smile. “As out of sorts as I am today, it’s obvious I need to take a few moments away from the kitchens. Once again, Miss Dexter, my apologies.”

  She went up to the shop and verified with Miss Simms and Miss Foster that everything there was in good order. “I’ll be upstairs if you need me,” she said, and went to her rooms, thinking she might take a short nap, for it wasn’t likely she’d get any other opportunities for sleep until the ball was over. But when she reached her bedroom, she noticed through the doorway to the adjoining bath that one of her maids had laid out fresh towels and soap.

  She glanced down and noted that she was covered in sugar, flour, and sweat, as usual. She glanced back up, staring at the porcelain bath. Stupid to have a bath now, she told herself, for she’d only get dirty and sweaty again when she returned to the kitchens. And a full bath would empty one of her boilers, leaving the maids with less hot water in the scullery. But that newfangled bathtub proved an irresistible temptation, and fifteen minutes later, she was sinking blissfully into a tub of warm water.