“In short, Miss Rare-Foure, I have not been on the hunt for a wife, but since knowing you, I find myself thinking about such a position more than I ever have.”
Such a position? It sounded as though she had been auditioning for the role of viscountess without knowing it. Perhaps his kisses hadn’t been driven by passion or desire to taste her lips but simply to see if she was good enough at the act to become his spouse.
Abruptly, she rose and went to the stove, where she quickly prepared the brown-Betty teapot with loose leaves and then poured in the boiling water.
Charles began to speak again, but she held up her hand to halt him. Not bothering with their blue, knitted tea cozy for she wasn’t going to let the tea steep hardly at all, she opened the cold box and splashed milk into her mug. Snatching for the sugar container, she grabbed up a dash with her fingers, then froze. He would think her a barbarian, but it was too late.
Reaching for a spoon — it was a large unwieldly tablespoon and not a delicately appropriate teaspoon to her chagrin — she stirred while she poured the tea, then waited a moment to let any leaves settle.
“Miss Rare-Foure, if I may continue, I have much to recommend the union—”
Again, she held up her hand. If Charles couldn’t even call her by her first name, they were not at a place in which he ought to be asking for her hand. She wanted to stop him before he did. Once he made the offer, for apparently all the wrong reasons as far as she was concerned, then she would have to say no. His manly pride would be hurt, and they would have to stop keeping company, which would destroy any chance they had of growing closer.
Sipping the tea, she tilted her head back slightly, keeping her gaze on his startled face, while she let the hot beverage melt the toffee that was stuck to her back teeth. Using tea as a gargling liquid — another barbaric moment.
If he still wanted to marry her, she ought to grab onto him with both hands. But she wouldn’t do that. She wanted him to be absolutely head-over-heels in love with her the way the duke was with Amity and Mr. Carson was with Bea. The way she was starting to feel over him, if she could just stop thinking herself somewhat unsuitable.
In any case, having seen such love, she could settle for no less. Perhaps all they needed was a little more time.
“Lord Jeffcoat,” she said at last. “You caught me at an unfortunate moment. I let my hunger get the best of me and thought two pieces of toffee would be wise. Obviously, it wasn’t.”
“That’s quite all right,” he said. “As I mentioned I came to speak to you and wasn’t expecting you to do too much talking back.”
“Really?” What a strange thing to say. Then again, she supposed lawyers liked to persuade to their satisfaction and not hear a lengthy argument in return.
“There is only one word I want to hear after I ask my question,” he said. “Will you sit again?”
“Are you sure you don’t want a cup of tea?” she asked, stalling as she considered how to stop him.
“No, really, I don’t. If this goes well, I’ll have a celebratory glass of champagne at my club. If it doesn’t, I’ll have a soothing glass of brandy in my study.”
She couldn’t help rolling her eyes. The man was a dolt of the first order.
“Lord Jeffcoat, if my answer were satisfactory, I would assume you would have champagne with me, not with your friends at your gentlemen’s club. But I believe you will find yourself in your study.”
He paused, apparently considering the ramifications of her words.
“Are you turning me down?” he asked, his tone incredulous.
“No,” she said quickly. “I am not letting you ask.”
Silence met her response, and then, “Why not?”
“Because I don’t wish to turn you down, but you are asking me prematurely, don’t you think?”
He frowned and reached for her mug. Surprised, she released it to him and watched him take a sip, then drain it completely. All the while, he continued to look concerned.
Handing the empty cup back to her, he sat upon the stool, something a gentleman in his right mind would never do, not while she remained standing. Clearly, she had bewildered him into discourteous behavior.
Running a hand through his hair, he stared at her, his deep blue eyes puzzled. “I thought it was the goal of all young women to be asked for their hand.”
She smiled wryly, setting the cup aside. “You think our goal is to be asked, not even the worthier goal of getting married?”
“Well, first the proposal, of course.”
“So a young woman wants simply to be asked,” she mused, “by anyone.”
His cheeks flushed a ruddy color. “I am not just anyone.”
Ah, the viscount had his pride, as she suspected. The nobility was a different breed of horse altogether. Not that she didn’t think every man had a dose of conceit, but these titled men would naturally consider themselves to be the choicest supplicants for a woman’s hand. And they would be right. Nevertheless, they couldn’t expect the instant devotion of every female, nor a positive response in every case.
“No, you are not just anyone. To me, you have been a good friend.”
He winced.
“And more than that,” she added quickly, thinking of the way he’d touched her and the exquisite sensation of his lips on hers. “We have had many pleasant hours together, and I hope more to come.” That was as honest as she could be without asking him if he thought he might fall hopelessly in love with her.
“I see,” he said.
Did he?
“Miss Rare-Foure—”
“Charlotte, please, at least when we’re alone.”
“Normally, we cannot be alone. I thought to come here and ... come to an agreement, and then it wouldn’t be so terribly irresponsible for us to be caught together. Although it could still damage your reputation.”
Abruptly, he reached out and took her hand and drew her into the space directly in front of him, between his outstretched legs. With him on the stool and her standing, her head was above his, and he had to look up to her.
“You are a puzzling female,” he said. “If I’d started my proposal to any other, I am certain she would have let me finish at the very least. You do like me, don’t you?”
She couldn’t help smiling. “I do.”
“Then tell me what you want,” he implored.
It was an unusual view, looking down on a man. They always stood until one sat down and then they stood the moment one rose again. She’d always thought it was some sort of chivalric custom, but now, realizing how differently she felt seeing him below her, Charlotte couldn’t help wondering if men did it to maintain a perspective of power and authority. She must remember to ask her sisters what they thought of her notion.
Taking stock of his brown hair and eyebrows and the bridge of his fine nose, thinking it might be quite wonderful to gaze upon him every day for a lifetime, finally, she sighed.
“I want what anyone wants, and I think you can figure it out on your own.” She started to step back, but he kept hold of her hand.
“Do you think I can give it to you, Charlotte?”
She caught her lower lip between her teeth. Hearing him say her name gave her a shivery feeling. She understood why men and women didn’t go around saying each other’s given names. It was an intimate thing, and the wrong person doing so would be too familiar.
But Charles Jeffcoat was not the wrong person.
“Yes.”
“That was the answer I was hoping for earlier,” he teased.
“Now you have it. I think you will figure out what I’m saying, but only time will tell for sure.”
He tugged slightly, trying to get her to close the space between them, to lean down and either kiss him or let herself be kissed. That wasn’t going to change anything, nice as it would be. To her detriment, though, it might make him think her a little loose for stopping a proposal but not a kiss.
“Do you know what I would like to do?” she aske
d.
His smiled widened, and since they were inches apart, she could see the interest sparkling in his eyes.
“I would like to move all the empty tins from the front of the shop — the ones on the shelves — to the upstairs.”
He drew back.
“Will you help me?” she persisted, wondering if a viscount would consider himself above such things.
“Of course,” he said immediately, but his gaze dropped to her mouth. “But I had hoped—”
“For a sweet first?” she asked innocently. “Perhaps a chocolate or a piece of my marzipan rather than the toffee. It seems extra sticky tonight.”
At last, he let her slip her hand out of his grasp.
“Actually, I would enjoy another piece of your marzipan.”
She froze. What if he hated it? Suddenly, it meant more to her than anything else that this man like what she crafted every day. She didn’t have to go to the display case. She and Edward had moved all the remaining confectionery into the back to go to deliveries in the morning and so none of it would get contaminated by sawdust.
Reaching past him to a covered tray, she lifted the lid and picked up a small marzipan faux cherry. At its center, she’d put a dollop of Amity’s chocolate fondant. It was one of her favorite sweets.
“Try this,” she said.
Nodding, he sunk his teeth into it, biting it in half, dropping a little onto his pant leg. Unthinkingly, she brushed at it while he chewed. His eyes widened, either at the deliciousness of the treat or the feel of her fingers on the top of his thigh. Withdrawing her hand with haste, she crossed her arms and waited as he popped the remainder into his mouth.
Then he licked his lips, an attractive thing for a man to do if he had just been satisfied by something of one’s own creation.
“I loved it. The marzipan was silky soft but also firm. And the surprise of chocolate in the middle was a triumph, particularly the way it paired with the almond flavor. I think I detected a little vanilla, too. Yes?”
“Yes.” Charlotte clapped her hands. This man definitely had promise. “Now that you’re fortified, will you help?”
“I would have helped even without the bribery.”
When he stood again abruptly, he seemed to shrink the size of the room. And she took a step back.
“I know you would have, but it is important you understand what I do here.” She wanted him to love every aspect of her, recalling how Lionel not only wouldn’t come into the shop but didn’t care for her marzipan.
Charles made a sound of dismissal. “I think you do a lot more here than make marzipan pigs and fruit, but I’ll admit you do that very well.”
He reached for her again, and she ducked away, grabbed the keys to the upstairs and left the room.
“Are you coming?” she called over her shoulder. “These tins won’t move themselves, and the builder starts tomorrow.”
Chapter Eighteen
The builder! Charles wished he’d helped her find one and hoped she had hired a reputable man. She’d said the other night he was related to Edward. That was reassuring, since the boy had a good work ethic.
Holding his arms out in front of him, he let Charlotte pile tins on his forearms before he realized the absurdity of such a precarious way to move them.
“Don’t you own any sacks or boxes?”
She paused. “I suppose that would be safer. If these hit the ground, they will dent. I can’t sell dented tins even if the contents are perfect.” She dashed away, leaving him frozen in place.
After a moment, he called out, “How are you faring, Miss Rare-Foure?”
“Call me Charlotte when we’re alone, Charles!”
Her teasing voice made him smile. Most everything about her made him feel like smiling. Somehow, she had avoided his proposal while making him feel good about their future — because she said she believed he could give her what she wanted.
His arms were starting to ache. What did she want?
She hadn’t let him reach the part of his speech when he told her he had come to care for her. He sighed. Care was too tepid a word for the emotions she raised in him anyway. Should he have declared he loved her? Doing so seemed premature, and he hadn’t wanted to scare her off.
Who escorted someone out a few times and then announced they’d fallen in love? No one in their right mind! Only a mad man. And Charlotte wouldn’t want a mad man. With her upbringing, so solidly middle class, she would want a slow, steady blossoming relationship, and a normal man who said, “Over the past few months, I’ve fallen in love with you.”
Otherwise, he would be like one of those crazy poets, Keats or Shelley. Or like Oscar Wilde. Any of those folks who adhered to the pursuit of beauty over goodness, although Charlotte was both. Did she want one of those wild men? Like the artists Rossetti and Morris, who wrote about self-expression being more important than moral expectations, who rebelled against the restrictions of conformity and vowed their allegiance to the cult of beauty and art for art’s sake.
All of that was opposite to the pedantic life of a barrister, which was steeped in rules and laws and practical application. Especially a barrister who was also a viscount, and some might say a stuffy viscount.
Finally, she reappeared.
“Sorry for the delay. Edward had folded all the delivery bags and put them away in a new place. Now I know how my mother feels when I rearrange the shelves after she’s had them a certain way for a decade.”
Placing sacks on the floor, she started to unload his arms of their cargo. When she’d put the last tin into the bags, he flexed his arms and groaned, catching her glance. Now she thought him a weakling.
“They weren’t heavy,” he explained, “just an awkward position to hold.”
“Of course. And you were right,” she said. “We have plenty of sacks to hold all these tins, and they can stay in them in the corner upstairs. They’ll remain clean and undamaged.”
“How will your mother feel about something far greater than rearranging confectionery on a shelf?” he asked her.
Her face grew serious, but she took a breath and picked up two sacks. “Unwieldy but light, as you said. Let’s take them up, shall we?” she said and turned toward the door.
When they were walking up the stairs, she added, “I believe my mother will think I’ve made the best choices for our business in her absence.”
He heard her mutter under her breath, “I hope so.”
“And you are closing the shop while the staircase is built?”
“It seemed the prudent thing,” she said. “What if a customer was hit by a piece of lumber or got sawdust in her toffee?”
“Will this in any way endanger your ability to pay your rent?” He hated to pry but it seemed an important thing to have considered.
They stepped inside the abandoned space. “I hope not. The deliveries will continue, and as long as we have that steady money, we should be fine. It’s only for a few days after all.”
They set the sacks down at the back, as far from where the builder would cut a hole in the floor as possible.
“Furnishing these rooms will also be expensive,” he pointed out.
“I’ve already started. I was telling Edward, but it was like talking to a bowl of almonds. I found the perfect table and ordered six of them. They’re in the Aesthetic mode everyone is going on about these days. At first, I was going to make the upstairs look like the downstairs, but then, when you think about all the wondrous things we can do with color and peacocks — you know how everyone is mad for peacocks! — as long as we use the sapphire blue my mother likes as an accent color.”
Dear God! She was part of the wild art movement. How would he, a mundane man, ever satisfy her if she was thinking of Edward Burne-Jones and Albert Moore? She would indeed respond to grandiose declarations of passion and fanciful promises of undying love. She might expect her beau to threaten to jump off a cliff onto sharp rocks if she withdrew her favor or imagine he might set sail alone to fight in forei
gn wars like Byron. Charles didn’t even like going to a strange club and not getting his favorite type of brandy.
“Peacocks,” he repeated, “painted on the walls?”
“Maybe,” she said. “I can sketch a few in and think about whether to hire a painter.”
“You were taking painting classes, weren’t you? Are you skilled enough?”
She shook her head. “Not to put on the wall of Rare Confectionery, no.”
“Then perhaps someone from your class,” he suggested. “A student might work cheaply.”
Her expression clouded over, and he wondered what he’d said wrong. Quickly, he added, “In any case, blue peacocks sound most enchanting.”
“But are they timeless?” Charlotte asked him. “Imagine if the trend fades away, and we have to do the walls over again in a year or so.”
“There is that risk. Maybe you should go with dark paneling. Everyone likes that.”
By the face she made not everyone did, in fact, like that.
“We’ll see,” she said noncommittally, and he decided not to attempt any further advice on decorating the café.
In the ensuing silence, the realization they were alone again with no agreement between them made him prickly. He wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her.
“I’ll get the rest of the tins,” he offered and disappeared before she could say anything. When he returned, she was waiting at the top of the stairs, the keys in her hand, ready to lock up.
That was a relief. There would be no more temptation. Passing her, he dropped the bags off with the others, before vacating the suite of rooms. Standing beside her as she locked the door, he detected her soft floral, lemon-and-lime scent in the closed confines of the tight stairwell.
“All set?” he asked.
She turned to him. “Yes.”
An instant later, his mouth was upon hers and, after hearing the sound of the keys hit the landing beside him, her fingers were threaded in his hair. Pressing her against the door, her warm curves molded themselves against him, and he held her hips in place, his legs getting lost in her full skirts.
My Lady Marzipan (Rare Confectionery Book 3) Page 19