by Devon, Eva
Her grandfather, of course, would be horrified.
He had spent a lifetime working away for it.
Roxley said nothing as he wound his way through the dark corridors, down several sets of stairs, then finally into a large room beneath the ground.
The kitchens.
There were high, wide windows at one end of the room, which she assumed allowed a great deal of light in during the day. At present, the sun was setting and the only light was from the great fireplace, which took up a vast portion of the far wall. It left the room a deep ruby, with dancing shadows along the myriad tables and cabinets.
It seemed quite odd, a kitchen without staff in it.
She’d often been in her family’s, but she’d never been allowed to do anything in it. No, it was a place where she found the only kindness she’d ever known in her house. A quick cup of milk or a biscuit and marmalade with the cook’s cat while her own family rabbited on about invitations and the state of fashion and how they’d afford the most popular cut of clothes.
Her family’s kitchen had always been full of scurrying footmen and maids, the kitchen staff who were relentlessly cleaning and preparing food, and poor scullery girls leading lives with nothing but misery and endless, thankless drudgery.
Roxley looked about in the red-hued darkness, found a candle, struck some flint, and lit it. He pulled out a stack of candles and left them upon the table.
For her, she assumed.
“I hope you aren’t too particular,” he said as he began rummaging about the cabinets.
“Oh, no, not at all,” she assured. In fact, she took great pride in her rather easy nature. “Perhaps you have some bread and cheese?”
He eyed her carefully. “Cheese?”
Suddenly, she felt as if she was undergoing some strange test under his curious gaze. “Yes. Don’t you like cheese?”
“I adore it,” he said. “But I find most ladies find the scent to be too strong for their tastes.”
She tsked, wondering why so many young ladies were forced into delicacy. She knew it was learned and such learning was meant to keep ladies from having any sort of adventures or freedom. From their clothes, to their need for chaperones, to their encouraged bird-like eating habits, it was all vastly inconvenient for a bold life.
“Cheese is a most practical and delicious food item,” she countered. “One can eat it at any hour of the day. It is easy to keep and is excellent at curbing hunger.”
“Agreed,” he said, surprised. “You don’t seem a fussy sort at all.”
He did seem continually amazed. She wondered how long it would take to convince him that only society’s edicts, and not her own nature, held her back.
“I’m not,” she said, wishing he would stop talking and produce a hunk of cheese. She dearly hoped this was not some sort of philosophical conversation. After all, she was famished. “And I do encourage you to abandon any such ideas immediately. You keep expressing surprise that I am not some sort of delicate individual. Please cease.”
“We shall see,” he said, his emerald gaze hooded as if he didn’t quite dare believe her protestations.
And with that, he turned to a cupboard, opened it, and pulled out a large loaf of the most beautiful crusty bread she’d ever seen and a plate covered by a cloth. He set them upon the table and handed her a knife.
“Here,” he instructed. “Cut whatever you please.”
Their fingers touched for the slightest moment. The roughness of his fingertips caressed the softness of her own hands, and she swallowed.
Hungry. She was hungry. And it was doing the oddest things to her mind. Surely, that bare touch did not leave her heated and suddenly without breath.
Of course not. How absurd. She cleared her throat and hefted the surprisingly heavy apparatus.
She stared at the bread, then the knife, then the bread again.
“Bloody hell,” he drawled. “You’ve never cut your own bread, have you?”
“I confess not,” she said agreeably. She had not been trained to it or allowed into the kitchens for such things, so she couldn’t resent herself for lack of such knowledge. It astonished her that he was so appalled. Surely, most earls didn’t go about slicing their own bread.
No. Only audacious adventurers such as he, who went off without full staff, learned how to take such good care of their own dining necessities.
“There’s a first time for everything,” he stated, then gestured towards the bread. “Get at it. If you’re going to be my assistant, you must be capable in a great many spheres. I don’t just sit in an office, you know, reading books.
“Of course not.” She nodded, rather pleased he was a renaissance man. However, her position had not described anything that might require her to do such practical things. She found herself quite pleased. “But I never imagined I would leave the house. After all, your letter said—”
“My letter towards the university was as simple as those idiots could understand.” He blew out a derisive breath. “I would never hire a lily of a fellow who couldn’t leave the hothouse. They’d never survive Egypt, let alone the voyage from Rome to Alexandria.”
“I see,” she said, and she felt she did. He was looking for an assistant who was an all-around person, capable of living rough and also reading ancient tomes. . . It gave her a remarkable sense of hope that perhaps. . . Just perhaps, she might see the shining surface of the Nile if he kept her on.
She hefted the knife. “I must leave the hothouse, then? How marvelous. And I am most eager to learn any practical lesson you have to teach me.”
With that, she squarely faced the bread, adjusted her grip on the knife’s handle, and pondered how the devil to begin.
Nibbling the inside of her cheek, she put her free hand on the bread, which was in a round shape and had the most beautiful, soft dusting of flour upon its crusty surface. The scent of it wafted up to her, and she was thankful her stomach did not yowl in anticipation.
Once again, she eyed the knife and she eyed the bread. She generally didn’t feel a fool. She had no such time for self-recriminations. No, the best thing was simply to apply ones’ self to the learning process. . . But she was at a bit of loss, which felt quite disappointing, given it was simply bread.
How did one get at it?
She really had no clue.
Well, in for a penny in for a pound, she thought.
She gave him a smile, most determined, brought the knife down to the top of it, and began to press.
“No,” he roared immediately, all but bolting forward. “Not bloody like that.”
Jumping ever so slightly, she was tempted to jab him. . . Not truly, of course, but his roar caused her cheeks to flame at her seeming defeat by a loaf of bread.
“Well, Roxley,” she pointed out. “Unless you show me, I have no idea what must be done except to give it a try. And the try, of course, could be, and is, incorrect.”
“True,” he admitted, his voice evening. “How true. I admire you for giving it a try, but you’re going to ruin the bread. Pass it over, and I’ll show you how it’s done.”
She pursed her lips and peered at him with patience. “You should have suggested such a thing in the first place.”
“My goodness,” he said. “You are quite stern in your opinions.”
“Opinions are necessary, and learning is important,” she declared, hoping to appear dispassionate even if she did feel a trifle, just a trifle, irked. “I’m so very glad you’re happy to teach me rather than have me massacre the bread.”
“Hmm,” he murmured again.
It seemed to be his favorite reply whenever she said something altogether practical, which he could not contradict.
He put one of his hands on the bread, and she could not help but notice how strong and firm it was. His hand. Not the bread. The width and length of his fingers sent the most delicious wave though her. The nimbleness of them as he placed his palm on the hard crust was most intriguing.
He eas
ily picked up the knife, as if it was second nature to him. And then he placed it atop the bread, angled it, and began to saw back and forth in deft, confident strokes.
“You see,” he explained. “If you simply press down, you’re going to press the entire loaf of bread into a pancake. And that would be a disaster. And then you’ll simply be tearing the bread apart. This way, you can cut it into beautiful slices.”
“I see,” she said, amused and thankful. He was so thorough and dedicated in even the smallest of gestures.
Once again, he held out the knife to her. “Now you try.”
She did as he said. She took up the knife again. Once again, their fingers brushed.
Chapter 6
It was quite an astonishing sensation, the feel of his rough hand against hers, for it was a brown by the sun and hard from hours of work. In all her life, she’d never felt such a thing.
The men of her general acquaintance prided themselves on the softness of their hands and the lack of work they engaged in. Anything they did, such as riding, that did require work was done with gloves. . .
Not so, the Earl of Roxley.
What kind of work, she wondered. For an earl was not given to working outdoors, but he clearly was. And at a great many varied tasks, she was willing to bet.
It was an astounding thought. The realization that he was such a man of action sent the most marvelous sensation through her. It felt. . . warm and tingling and. . . It made her feel utterly alive.
She liked it.
She knew she did.
There was no point in arguing about it with herself.
Still, she gave herself a mental shake and faced the bread. He was silent. Surely, the touch of her hand had not struck him in such a way as it had her?
He was a man of great experience, after all. And he would only see her as a practical assistant. . . Not as a woman who might reveal whole new worlds to him.
Easily, now that she’d been shown, she made quick work of the bread.
And with that, she whipped off the linen cloth from the plate and spotted the most delicious cheese she’d ever seen. The strong, but inviting scent wafted up towards her, and she found she could hardly wait to bite it.
At last, her stomach roared with hunger.
He arched a brow at her. “Have you not eaten today?”
She didn’t wish to confess she had not bought herself luncheon. The pennies she had with her needed to be frugally kept. She wouldn’t be writing her family for money. Nor did they generally give her much. No, they thought her spending her time at Helena’s country home. What need for money would she have as a house guest?
So, she had bought nothing on the journey. Her financial state was quite appalling and would be until she received her first wages from him.
Still, she wasn’t going to reveal any of that to him.
After all, one didn’t really wish to put themselves out to others, especially one’s employer, as being in a state of pecuniary disaster.
“I was so engrossed in my book,” she said with forced confidence, “that I forgot to order luncheon at the coaching inn.”
“Hmmm,” he replied, this time with a slightly different note, one as if he was trying to puzzle her out.
She sliced the cheese happily, ignoring his curious stare.
Just as she was finishing, and eager to assemble her repast, he pulled out a large block of butter and a smaller knife from beneath the cabinet beside him.
Quickly, he buttered the sliced bread.
She began to salivate at the mere sight of the perfect yellow butter. For butter was one of her favorite things.
He slathered it rather than spread it, and then with the seeming magic of a wizard, pulled out two pears from the linen which had concealed the cheese.
She nearly fainted with happiness.
Pears, cheese, bread, butter, was there anything better in the world?
She doubted it very much, indeed.
But apparently, there was. For Roxley rummaged amidst the items in his cabinet and produced a large green bottle of deep red wine.
He truly was a wizard if ever there was one.
It seemed ridiculous to think a man in a kitchen producing food so easily could be thought magical, but given her state of hunger and the way he kept producing things, such fancies were understandable, surely.
Within moments, he’d found two clay cups and poured out the wine.
“Shall we eat together?” he asked, passing her one of the simple cups. “Or would you prefer to go back to your room and immediately begin working?”
Her insides fluttered with excitement at the very idea of settling into discourse with the famous and sometimes infamous Earl of Roxley.
She had dreamed of a moment like this. . . It had never been so intimate, or so comfortable. . . Or so absolutely wonderful.
“Are you quite well, Miss Post?”
She cleared her throat. “Oh, yes, and if you’re inviting me to a bit of conversation, I’d prefer it. I really don’t care to eat by myself if I have the opportunity to speak to someone I might learn something from.”
“I’m not giving lessons,” he informed, placing a piece of cheese upon his buttered bread.
“Of course not,” she hastily agreed, her brain now as equally hungry as her stomach. “But perhaps you would like to regale me with tales of your adventures.”
A snort. . . His snort. . . Filled the room. “More nonsense from the newssheets. If we do have discourse, it shall not be the sort of poppycock one finds in a Radcliffe novel. I shan’t regale,” he mocked, “you with nonsense.”
“You needn’t,” she assured, wondering how many people had, indeed, asked him for such tales. It seemed quite a few, given his irritation. “I don’t expect you to talk to me of mummies and ghosts and tomb robbers. I’m sure they are a fiction created to sell a vast many copies of newssheets.”
“Well. . .” He took a bite of bread, ate, then admitted, “There are, in fact, tomb robbers.”
“Indeed?” she queried, finally allowing herself to take a bite too. If she’d been one of those addlepated members of society, she would have swooned at the delicious combination of simple flavors.
Luckily, she had sense and an excellent constitution.
“Yes,” he sighed. “But they’re nowhere near as difficult as the French. The French are a bunch of ravening, raving rats. The English aren’t particularly better. They’re a nest of horrific rodents running about the pyramids, trying to pull up everything they can, take it out of the sand, and take it out of Egypt into the drawing rooms of Europe.”
She stared at him, her buttered bread aloft.
He was so passionate he transformed. Gone was his cynical, dry wit. He was almost shouting.
She would have thought that such a quick shift in his mood would be completely unattractive in a man, but the passion with which he spoke was awe-inspiring.
He clearly felt very strongly about people behaving quite inappropriately in Egypt. And that it should be stopped.
“But isn’t it a good thing to preserve the artifacts?” she asked, feeling at a loss.
“The artifacts are preserved,” he ground out. “They’re deep in the sand and should stay there, where humans cannot muck them up.”
She blinked then cocked her head to the side. “But you have many of them here, do you not?”
“Not in this house,” he countered, before taking a long drink of wine.
Her jaw nearly dropped. “Not in this house?” she gasped.
“No,” he confirmed.
“But I thought. . . I thought. . .” Much to her horror, she couldn’t formulate a proper response, she was so surprised.
“What exactly did you think, Miss Post?” he queried as his dark brows drew together. “That I keep such priceless artifacts lying about my house, where anyone could enter at any moment and take them away? Would I truly allow maids to drop them on the floor? Are you mad, woman?”
“No,” she said
, wondering if he was always so blunt, and suspecting he was, which was why his reputation was continuously dragged through the rags. “My mental faculties are superior. But I did not realize the extent to which people might go to get the artifacts you’ve collected. You think people might steal them from your home?”
“I know it to be true,” he stated, taking another drink of wine, the ruby liquid leaving a slight sheen on his sensual lower lip. “The Earl of Westmore cannot bear the fact that I have as many artifacts as I do. And that I have managed to acquire so many singular pieces. There is a magnificent necklace I am reconstructing. . . Worse, he is appalled that I intend to return them to Egypt rather than see them in the homes of the ton.”
She stared at him as if he had lost his mind, but she wasn’t horrified. Quite the contrary. She stared at him because she was so happy she could barely contain herself.
Finally, she had found someone who was as excited about the past as she was and who saw it as more than simple treasure to be acquired and shown off.
“Will I get to see it?” she breathed, her fingers all but itching.
“What?” he asked blankly, placing his cup down on the table between them.
“The necklace,” she clarified, trying to envision what such a thing might look beyond the boundaries of mere sketches.
“We shall see,” he informed, though he appeared to regret that he needed dim her excitement. “Once I discover if you are sure-handed. Can’t let you be dropping those things on the ground, you know?”
“I understand. I understand,” she assured, taking up her pear and biting into it. The sweet juices caressed her tongue, and she let out an involuntary sigh of pleasure before she continued, “You must see if I have careful fingers and good eyes.”
“Yes,” he agreed, his gaze wandering towards her lips then to the pear. “And a sensible disposition.”
“Oh, I have,” she stated, taking a sip of wine.
“That’s fine to say it,” he said slowly, bracing his hands on the table and leaning forward. He was so tall, he had to gaze down upon her. “But I must see it in action before I allow you near any of those things.”