A Taste of Seduction (An Unlikely Husband)

by Campisi, Mary

Claire turned to her father and gave him a sweet smile. He never could resist her when she smiled at him and lowered her voice to just above a desperate whisper, as though she’d die if he didn’t grant her request.

  “Alexander Bishop has a fine reputation, Father.”

  “As what? A stable boy?” He grunted and grabbed his glass of port, his ice-blue eyes narrowing in disgust.

  “As a gentleman,” Claire countered. “I’ve had occasion to meet him and was quite impressed.”

  “That he managed to string two syllables together?” The earl took a healthy swallow of his drink. “Or that manure didn’t cling to his boots?”

  “Father, really!”

  The earl’s lips curved in a twisted smile. “The truth is not often a welcome bedfellow.”

  Truth. Claire wondered what her father would say, if, in the name of truth, she divulged her string of lovers, many of whom fell well below the station of baron? If she were to tell him about the cook’s son and the groomsman? And what of her father, the mighty Earl of Belmont, who made weekly visits to a widow half his age? Though he had only a handful of gray hair on an otherwise black head, he was still sixty years of age. Should she confront him with that bit of honesty? She thought not.

  No, truth was best left buried somewhere between tarnished honesty and blatant lies.

  She’d try another tactic. “Are you saying he is not welcome at Glenhaven?”

  The earl rubbed his close-cropped beard and laughed. “That’s my girl. Always clever. You could’ve been a strategist for the Crown.” He lifted his right hand and motioned in all four directions. “If one ploy doesn’t work, retreat and try a second. Plan B fails, there is always Plan C and even D.”

  She hid a smile. “Why, Father, whatever do you mean?”

  “You’re my daughter, Claire. Shrewd and cunning, just like me.” He chuckled. “First you play the role of helpless female and when that doesn’t work, you retreat to indignant diplomat. Should that fail, you no doubt have another option waiting.”

  “Demanding compromiser.” She laughed. “There’s usually no need to venture past that.”

  “Lucky for me, I think. You drive a hard bargain, girl.”

  She walked up to him and pecked him on the cheek. “I learned from my father.”

  That seemed to please him. Claire knew by the smile on his face he enjoyed their verbal sparring. Her father was a tough man. Hated by some, feared by most, and he’d never shown a moment’s compassion for his fellow man, whether they be friend or foe.

  Fair was fair, and business was business. Personal feelings must be left at the doorstep. If someone was late paying a debt or needed a favor, they may as well spare their vocal chords because Belmont would show them no mercy.

  The only exception was Claire. For her, he would do anything.

  “I hear there’s a new guest at Drakemoor,” he said, with casual nonchalance.

  Straightening, she pinned her gaze on him. He was busy plucking a piece of lint from his jacket, his curly head bent to the task.

  “Oh?” She hadn’t heard about any guest.

  “A woman.” His icy gaze met hers and he smiled. “Montrose’s bastard.”

  “No,” she squealed, her face lighting up. Oh, but she did love a good bit of gossip. “Who is she?”

  “Name’s Francie Jordan.”

  Francie Jordan. Jared’s obsession. The woman he’d compared her to, as though anyone could compare to Claire Ashcroft. Curiosity and an unfamiliar feeling that might well be envy crept through Claire’s consciousness. More beautiful than she? Well, she’d see for herself.

  “Let’s invite her, too,” she said, already thinking of what she’d wear for the occasion. The royal blue silk matched her eyes, but the pale green satin had a neckline that would hold Alexander Bishop’s attention.

  “I don’t think so. She’s a bastard,” her father said, scrunching his nose as though he’d smelled rotten cabbage.

  “Father, I want to meet her.” And make her own comparisons.

  The earl cleared his throat and downed the rest of his port. “There is one more thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “I think she may be your cousin.” Claire almost choked. “My what?”

  “Your cousin, but I can’t be certain.” He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Your mother had an older sister named Eleanor. Quiet, plain, always doting on Catherine. She married her tutor.” He snorted. “I don’t have to tell you what a scandal they created. They lived with us until your mother died. Then they just disappeared. I never cared for either one and was glad to be rid of them.” He grinned and stroked his beard. “Eleanor left behind a tidy little sum of money. Now they’ve turned up at Montrose’s home with a red-haired daughter.” His grin spread across his face. “Eleanor’s hair was black, and her husband’s was brown.”

  “Father,” Claire breathed. “What are you saying?”

  “The woman cuckolded her husband. I’ll bet Montrose is the father. That’s why they’re back, most likely attempting to convince him to launch his daughter into society.”

  Claire made a face. “How crude. Some people have no dignity. Will you acknowledge her?” And then, “Will I have to?”

  “Of course not, child. We’ll say nothing. Good manners and proper breeding will prohibit anyone else from mentioning it.” He ran a hand over his face. “Good God. Can you imagine? Illegitimacy linked to the Ashcroft name?”

  Claire shuddered. “No, nor do I want to. It’s extremely distasteful.”

  “Some people have no respect for title or position.”

  “But you do, Father.” Claire threw him another of her bright smiles. “You understand your responsibility. As do I.”

  The earl beamed and Claire touched his shoulder, murmuring, “Now, about the matter of Mr. Bishop and Miss Jordan. When may I invite them to Glenhaven?”

  “You’ll give me no peace until I agree.” He let out a sigh and waved his hand. “Go ahead then, send the invitation. Four days hence.”

  She threw her arms about his neck and said, “Thank you, Father. Thank you so much.”

  “Good God, child, it’s only a dinner invitation.”

  But with careful planning and a little scheming, it will turn into a wedding invitation. Claire closed her eyes and smiled, thinking of Alexander Bishop’s strong thighs and broad chest.

  ***

  “I don’t think you should be in here, child,” the old woman said, wringing her hands. “Mr. Bishop wouldn’t approve. No, ma’am, he wouldn’t.”

  Francie glanced up from the mountain of flour in her mixing bowl and gave the cook a warm smile. “Please don’t worry, Mrs. Jenkins. I’ll take full responsibility for my actions.”

  Her comment seemed to worry the poor old woman even more. “Mr. Bishop wouldn’t approve,” she said again, shaking her gray head until the thick braided coil on top flopped from side to side. She’d been standing at the other end of the table, but now she moved closer, her short, round figure waddling to within inches of Francie. “In all the years I’ve been here, I’ve never seen him as much as poke his head in the kitchen,” she said in a low voice, her brown eyes darting toward the door.

  “Good. Then there’s no reason to think he’ll ‘poke his head’ in here today, is there?” She leaned over and gave a good punch to the flour mixture. “Needs a bit more water, I think.”

  Mrs. Jenkins cleared her throat but didn’t answer.

  Francie glanced at the cook and saw the worry on her round face. “Don’t be concerned, Mrs. Jenkins. I’m making a surprise for Mr. Bishop.”

  “A surprise?” The cook’s bun wobbled again. “Mr. Bishop does not like surprises.”

  “Well, tonight he’s going to get one.” Francie said, adding a touch of water to the dough. For heaven’s sake, why would anyone take issue with rosemary and thyme bread? It was a peace offering, a request to start anew, forget all the unkind words and insinuations that had flowed between them. And the kis
s that almost happened. Yes, especially that.

  She’d been plagued with that memory for two days: Alexander’s silver gaze boring into her, making her all hot and cold at the same time, his warm breath fanning her cheek, his spicy cologne invading her senses. Now, whenever she looked at him, her gaze wandered to his mouth and she’d think of that afternoon in his study. Sometimes, she wondered how it would feel to be kissed by him, his mouth moving over hers, wanting, needing, possessing. It was crazy to speculate such a thing, crazier even to consider wanting to speculate, but in the dark of the night, with no one but her thoughts, she did just that.

  “Mr. Bishop—” the cook began again.

  “—will be fine,” Francie said, cutting off her concerns. She punched the dough once, twice, three times, enjoying the springy softness beneath her hands. “Everyone who’s ever tasted my rosemary and thyme bread loves it. It’s my aunt’s recipe. We used to make several loaves a week and send them to the neighbors.”

  Aunt Eleanor. She was doing so much better, even sitting up in a chair and moving about her room with Uncle Bernard’s assistance. Her face remained swollen and bruised, but her spirits were high. A taste of homemade rosemary and thyme bread might just lift them even higher.

  “The only kind of bread Mr. Bishop likes is plain white dinner rolls,” Mrs. Jenkins said, a half-scared look skittering across her face. “Sometimes white bread with strawberry jam. Depends on the day.”

  Francie looked up from her kneading. “Depends on the day?”

  The older woman nodded. “White dinner rolls on odd days, white bread with jam on even.”

  “What if Mr. Bishop should desire to have a white dinner roll on an even day?” she asked, not believing what she’d just heard. “What would happen then?”

  “He wouldn’t,” the cook said, a broad grin spreading over her face to reveal two deep dimples on either side of her mouth.

  “Why not?”

  “They’re Mr. Bishop’s rules.” She folded her fleshy arms over her ample middle and said, “And Mr. Bishop always keeps to his rules.”

  “I see.” But Francie didn’t see. Not at all.

  “So now you understand about your bread. He won’t eat it. Even if it was plain white, it’s not a roll.”

  “And today’s an odd day,” Francie murmured.

  Odd indeed.

  “Now you’ve got it. Odd days for rolls, even for bread. And white. Always and only white,” the cook said with an air of authority.

  Oh, she’d gotten it all right. White bread and white rolls. Even and odd. All Francie knew for certain was Alexander Bishop was the odd one here. Crazy was a more apt description. Good heavens, what kind of man organized his meals according to a number system?

  What else did he organize in this manner? And why?

  Obviously, Alexander Bishop needed help. He needed someone to teach him about spontaneity and chance. Impulsiveness and happenstance.

  She could show him those things. Francie enjoyed an unfettered existence, roaming the fields and woods of Amberden, gathering new experiences with the same enthusiasm she showed when gathering the herbs and flowers she loved so much.

  Perhaps that’s what Alexander needed. New and different experiences. Or perhaps only a new and different way to experience the same thing. She smiled. What better way to start than with a taste of her delicious, mouth-watering rosemary and thyme bread?

  ***

  “What is this?” Alexander said, staring at the plate in front of him.

  “Roast beef,” Francie answered. “With cauliflower and potatoes smothered in a light cream sauce, of course.”

  He threw her a disgusted look. “I know how to identify food. There should be pork and peas on this plate. The only thing right about it is the potatoes.”

  “Delicious,” Philip said, around a mouthful of cauliflower.

  “Excellent,” Bernard agreed. “Roast beef is one of my favorites. Didn’t have it near enough in Amberden. Eleanor will love this.”

  “Where’s the pork?” Today was Wednesday. Alexander ate roast pork with peas and potatoes every Wednesday. Roast beef was Saturday’s menu. And it was to be served with carrots, not cauliflower.

  Francie cleared her throat. “The change in menu was my fault. Mrs. Jenkins told me about the silly little rule you had.” She scooped up a forkful of cauliflower and laughed. “Honestly, Alexander. Pork on Wednesdays, roast beef on Saturdays? What if on Monday your mouth watered for a fine piece of roasted pork?”

  “I’d wait until Wednesday,” he bit out.

  She shook her head and laughed again. “But you needn’t. That’s the point. You could have a loaf of bread and a hunk of cheese if you’d like.”

  He glared at her. “But I don’t ‘like’. What I would like is for you to not interfere with the hired help.”

  “But, Alexander,” she said, pinning her blue gaze on him. “It’s so...” her voice dropped to a whisper, “boring.”

  The earl and Bernard fell into coughing fits within seconds of each other.

  “Father! Uncle Bernard!” She was half out of her chair when both men raised their hands to ward her off.

  “Fine. I’m fine,” Philip said, coughing one more time.

  Bernard took a drink of water, his face red. “Me, too. Must’ve gotten something caught in my throat.”

  He coughed again.

  “I’ve got something in the library to take care of that little tickle,” Philip said. He pushed his chair away from the table and addressed Alexander and Francie. “If you’ll excuse us for a few moments?”

  “Of course.” So the old men didn’t want to wait around to hear him explode.

  When they’d both left, Francie turned to Alexander and whispered, “Whiskey.”

  “Whiskey?” He cocked a brow.

  “Whiskey,” she repeated, nodding. “That’s what they’re going to use to take care of that little tickle.”

  He almost smiled but buried it with a frown. “Yes, I imagine they are.” He set down his fork. “Whiskey has many purposes, some of them even medicinal.”

  “I can’t believe Father is imbibing when he knows he shouldn’t.” She worried her lower lip. “He should refrain from all manner of alcohol—”

  “Francie,” Alexander cut in.

  “Yes?”

  Those clear blue eyes looked at him with such innocence, such honesty, it tugged at something deep inside, making him want to forget about his proper lifestyle, forget about eating pork on Wednesday and roast beef on Saturday. Forget about everything but wrapping himself in the warmth of her smile.

  “Yes?” she repeated.

  Was he imagining it or had her voice dropped an octave to a breathy whisper? His gaze fell to her lips. Full, pink lips. Lips he’d come close to tasting. So close. God, but he couldn’t get that image from his mind. The memory of Francie leaning into him, waiting for his kiss, kept him awake many a night. A couple shots of whiskey usually served as a soothing balm. As he’d told Francie, whiskey had many purposes.

  Alexander ran a hand over his face. What was he thinking? He and Francie were as different as...as...as pork and roast beef. They had nothing in common. She was too impulsive, too outspoken, and too brash for his subdued tastes. She was too much of everything he opposed. Good God, the woman didn’t even know how to behave like a proper lady!

  “Alexander?”

  There it was again, that low, breathy voice tapping at the cool exterior he worked so hard to maintain.

  “What?” he snapped. Where were Philip and Bernard? They’d had enough time to throw back three whiskeys.

  “You interrupted me.” She tilted her head to one side and tiny spirals of red hair brushed the swell of her breast.

  Nothing in common, he reminded himself.

  “You were about to say something,” she said.

  I think your breasts would fit very nicely in the palms of my hands.

  “Alexander!”

  My God, had he spoken aloud? “Wha
t?”

  Francie leaned over and touched his coat sleeve. His senses exploded with lavender.

  “What’s wrong? Are you angry with me for changing the menu?”

  He frowned. That was a safe subject. Much easier to tell her he’d been thinking about pork and roast beef than to admit he’d been fantasizing about her breasts and lips. He was truly depraved. “I don’t like surprises,” he said in a stern voice.

  Her face fell. “That’s what Mrs. Jenkins tried to tell me.” She looked away and her lower lip quivered. “But I wanted to show you not all surprises are bad. Sometimes they can be very good.” She sniffed. “I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”

  Her words hit him like a kick in the gut. What kind of cad was he, anyway? A heartless one, no doubt. The poor woman obviously went to great lengths to involve herself in his meal, only to have him berate her for the effort.

  Before he had time to consider his thoughts, Alexander found himself saying, “Perhaps once in a while would be all right.”

  She looked up and he saw a glimmering of unshed tears in her crystalline gaze. Her lips curved into a brilliant smile, lighting her entire face.

  He never wanted that smile to fade.

  “All right,” he blurted out. “You may interchange the vegetables, but leave the meats the same.” Her smile broadened. “For now,” he added.

  “And the dinner rolls and bread?” He heard the teasing note in her voice. “May I interchange those as well?”

  Alexander opened his mouth to answer but was interrupted by the maid bringing in a covered dish. She set it down halfway between Francie and himself, curtsied, and left.

  “I’ll be right back,” Francie said, rising from the table and reaching for the covered dish. “I think she brought in the wrong dish.”

  “Wait.” Alexander circled her wrist with his hand. “How do you know it’s the wrong dish when you haven’t even looked at it?”

  “Oh, I just know.” She tried to disengage her hand, but he held fast. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll return in a moment with your dinner rolls.”

  What was the little minx up to now? A moment ago, she almost burst into tears. Now she wanted to bolt with a dish of food. He tilted his head to one side and studied her. Why was she avoiding his gaze? She was hiding something and he’d bet it was under that covered dish. He reached out and pulled off the silver lid.