by Eva Leigh
The deuce of it was, she didn’t want to put distance between them.
Following logic rather than instinct, she approached a red-cheeked man who had been introduced to her as Lord Sundon.
Minutes later, she had learned two things. The first was that Lord Sundon was uninterested in conversing with the female guests of the Bazaar. The second was that no matter how she attempted to approach him regarding McGale & McGale, he would never listen to her as a matter of principle, since, in his words, “ladies are too flighty to understand figures and finance.”
Correction—she had learned three things. The third was that she had far more control over her temper than she’d believed. After all, she hadn’t hit Lord Sundon over the head with a vase.
“My lords and ladies,” Lord Trask announced, “Mrs. Catton’s presentation will commence. Please take your seats.”
“Correction,” the duke said. “We are going to Isabel Catton’s bakery, where we’ll not only hear her presentation, but we are to have a private tasting of her most popular items.”
Jess resisted the impulse to clap her hands together, but she was excited. Isabel Catton’s bakery and sweetshop was one of the most popular of its kind in London, possessing an unparalleled reputation for excellence.
Jess had hoped to visit Catton’s during her brief time in the city. She wanted to taste the country’s finest pastries, and surely there would be lessons to learn at the shop as to the successful management of a thriving business—with a woman as proprietor.
“At this moment,” the duke said, “a caravan of carriages awaits us downstairs. The servants have collected our hats and coats, and if we move quickly, we can be at Catton’s within half an hour. You will want to move quickly before the best iced cakes in London are devoured, or else you’ll witness the disgraceful spectacle of a duke’s public tantrum.” He gestured impatiently toward the door. “What are you waiting for? Do you want to see me scream and turn purple?”
Chuckling, murmuring, the guests made their way out of the drawing room. Jess was about to join them, but she heard Trask clucking at the duke.
“Might have warned me, Your Grace,” the marquess said, sounding slightly wounded.
“You would have presented me with a litany of reasons why we shouldn’t go,” His Grace said. “Head on downstairs. I shall meet you in a moment.”
The marquess muttered, but did as the duke instructed. A moment later, Jess and His Grace were alone.
“There’s another reason for creating such upheaval, isn’t there?” Jess asked him.
“No sense confining ourselves to a drawing room and slowly suffocating to death. The room is pleasant enough, but there’s a whole city out there, just waiting to be overrun by a bunch of monied toffs.”
“And . . . ?” she pressed.
“And . . . Catton’s is a delightful place. I thought it would make you smile to go there.”
She looked at him steadily. “It’s flattering that you would go to such lengths to please me.”
“I sense a however hovering nearby.”
“However,” she went on, “you made a decision without asking my opinion, and you didn’t bother to tell Lord Trask, either. You simply acted. It was very ducal.”
The brightness of his expression dimmed. “In your mouth, the word ducal doesn’t sound entirely complimentary.” He scowled. “Hell. I was being rather autocratic, wasn’t I?”
“Rather.”
“Admitting fault is not something I’ve practiced. Today, I’ll amend that.” He exhaled. “My apologies, my lady. Moving forward, I’ll try not to be such an overbearing ass.” He glanced at her. “You could voice some objection to my use of the term overbearing ass.”
“I could, but I shan’t.” She offered him a wry smile as he scowled deeper. “No need to brood about it. We’ll proceed with the day and enjoy our time at Mrs. Catton’s shop. And, Your Grace?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you.” Smiling to herself, Jess went down the stairs and collected her coat and bonnet. She met the other guests as they filed out of Lord Trask’s home.
Lady Farris looped her arm through Jess’s. “The female contingent of the Bazaar can ride together. Can’t we, Lady Haighe?” she asked the older woman.
“Only if you promise not to talk about men,” Lady Haighe fired back.
“Gracious, no,” Lady Farris said. “There are so many more interesting things to discuss. What do you think, Lady Whitfield?”
“My early years were quite rustic,” Jess said, “and experience has taught me to prefer the company of goats over a carriage full of men.”
“Less bleating with the goats.” Lady Farris winked at Jess when one of the male Bazaar guests harrumphed.
As a footman handed Jess into a waiting vehicle, she caught sight of the duke emerging from the house. He was in midstride as he donned his tall-crowned hat, and he moved sleekly, with virile grace.
She was partly pleased that he’d arranged the visit to Catton’s for her pleasure—and annoyed. At the least, he’d apologized for being so arrogant.
Blast it, she didn’t want to like him.
“We can make an exception,” Lady Farris said from the opposite seat, “if you’re inclined to discuss His Grace.”
“Did you know that goats belch?” Jess asked.
Lady Farris smirked. “Very well. We’ll stick to more bovine topics.”
The duke’s face appeared in the carriage window. He favored all of them with a blinding smile. “You have wisely chosen to segregate yourselves, ladies. Hopefully, no one will notice if I borrow a bonnet and pretend to be one of your sex so I may join you on the ride to Catton’s.”
“Go on with you, rascal.” Lady Haighe sniffed. “No one would mistake you for a woman. You’ve got half a day’s beard growth and smell of tobacco.”
“So does my great-aunt Lucretia,” he said.
Jess pretended to cough to hide her laugh.
“Begone!” Lady Haighe thumped her walking stick on the floor of the carriage.
“Ladies.” He winked at Lady Haighe, then touched his fingertips to the brim of his hat before disappearing from the carriage window.
“We’re not discussing men,” Lady Farris said, “but if we were, I’d say that it’s fortunate that His Grace is a duke. Men like him without the benefit of a title usually wind up as women’s hired lovers.”
“But their clients are always satisfied,” Jess noted.
“That is a certainty.”
The carriage lurched into motion, and they were underway. As the vehicle rolled through the streets of Mayfair, Jess said to her companions, “Lord Trask seems to have a policy to only invite widows to be guests of the Bazaar.”
“Not widows, plural,” Lady Haighe said. “Widow, singular. For years it was only myself. What a collection of sausages that drawing room was. This year,” she continued with a glint in her eyes, “I harangued and harassed Trask into inviting Lady Farris. I wanted married women and spinsters, too, but he immediately rejected the idea. Spinsters, he said, hadn’t enough capital to be of significance.”
“And with married women, it must have been the usual nonsense about a wife’s opinion being the same as her husband’s.” Jess rolled her eyes.
“Ha,” Lady Haighe barked. “In life, my husband knew better. He left all important decisions to the wisest one.” The lift of her chin clearly indicated that in her marriage, she had been the most sagacious.
“An exceptional circumstance,” Lady Farris said. “Certainly not the rule.” She considered Jess. “What of you, Lady Whitfield? Are you finding widowhood to be a delight or a torment?”
“I categorically enjoy being on my own,” Jess said, which was true enough. Early in their courtship, she and Oliver had gotten along well. So well, in fact, that they had even slept together after they’d promised to marry. But after her parents had died, and Jess had taken over the responsibility of managing McGale & McGale, he’d grown sulky and resentful, dem
anding her attention for himself. Either she could put all of her focus on him, making herself into a good and subservient wife, or he would not wed her.
She had not been sorry to see their engagement end.
“There, now,” Lady Farris said, sitting back against the cushions. “I knew I liked you for a reason.”
A short while later, the carriage came to a stop on a busy street. The footman opened the door and handed all the passengers down from the vehicle.
They gathered in front of a bustling shop, and Jess noted a queue of well-dressed people snaking out of the door. The painted sign across the front of the shop read Catton’s, and a smaller sign advertised, “All goods made with East India sugar.” People bearing light blue boxes tied with brown satin ribbons left the shop with a triumphant air, as if they’d secured their portion of a dragon’s treasure.
A woman stood beside the door, her posture upright and full of confidence, her expression proprietary. Surely she had to be Mrs. Isabel Catton herself.
The duke approached her and they spoke quietly. A moment later, Mrs. Catton went inside, and the duke motioned for everyone to follow.
They made their way through the bustling shop, moving through the room full of crowded tables. Though there were some men seated there, the customers largely seemed to be women enjoying a pot of tea and plates of sweets whilst exchanging the latest gossip.
Mrs. Catton led the procession through the main chamber and then down a corridor. She drew aside a velvet curtain to reveal a parlor with nearly a dozen tables arranged around the perimeter.
Jess’s attention shot to the silver platters in the center of each table. “Are those—?”
“Samples,” the duke said from behind her. “Oh, yes.” He rubbed his hands together, looking very much like a pirate on the verge of plundering.
Despite the shop’s aromas of sugar and butter, having the duke so close by filled her senses with his delicious scent—bergamot, apple, with just a hint of moss-covered oak. Her awareness was the unfortunate by-product of years she’d spent cultivating a discerning nose. She always tested the fragrance of McGale & McGale soap to ensure it wasn’t too overpowering or too faint. The proof that she’d done her job well was on her own skin.
But all fragrance altered depending on who wore it. There was something within a person’s particular composition that changed a scent, and whatever musky charm the duke exuded from his pores combined with his eau de toilette to make her light-headed as she walked ahead of him.
She wanted to lick him.
“I’m looking forward to it.”
Her gaze snapped to him. Was mind reading another of his ducal gifts? “Pardon?”
“The presentation. And sampling an array of Mrs. Catton’s delicacies.”
The Bazaar guests seated themselves, three to four people per table. At Jess’s table was a wealthy brewer by the name of Mr. Parley, as well as a man she’d been introduced to as Baron Mentmore. She hadn’t had the chance to determine whether or not they would be good prospects, but their response to Mrs. Catton would surely help in that area.
The duke also sat at her table. But he did not sit right beside her, which was slightly disappointing, even as she knew that a little distance between them was for the best.
She pulled from her reticule a stick of graphite to take down notes when Mrs. Catton took her place in the middle of the room.
“Good afternoon, my ladies. My lords.” She dipped in a quick curtsy. “I shall be brief and direct.”
Much as Jess wanted to pay attention to the presentation, her gaze was riveted by the sight of the duke’s ungloved hand resting on the table. Though it didn’t have the calluses or cuts of a working man’s hand, it seemed quite capable and strong.
Would it be delicate or rough against her skin?
A shame you’ll never discover the answer to that, she mentally snarled at herself.
“It is my intention,” Mrs. Catton said, “to build Catton’s shops in other major English cities. To do so, I require investment capital. Which brings you here to my business,” she added with a small smile.
“What would be the return?” the duke asked. “I assume you mean we are providing capital for loans, not ownership stakes.”
Jess sat up straighter at his unexpected—but astute—comment.
“The return would be twelve percent,” Mrs. Catton answered.
Here was a good lesson for Jess—she would have to emphasize the return on her potential investors’ money.
“Perhaps you might question why you ought to invest in my proposed scheme. Why should my shop be any different from any other in Manchester or Liverpool? To answer that, I invite you to try the cakes on your tables.”
Jess peered at the confections. They were little squares of cakes, with pale pink icing topped with a minuscule sugar flower.
“It looks too adorable to eat,” she murmured.
“Nothing is too adorable to eat,” the duke answered.
Heat pulsed through her as their gazes held. She could not look away, not even if Lord Trask pointed a blunderbuss at her and called her a fraud.
“Please,” Mrs. Catton urged, “have a taste for yourselves.”
Jess ripped her attention away from the duke. She plucked up one of the cakes and popped it into her mouth. The confection was a symphony of texture and flavor, a delicately crumbed cake perfumed with rose water with a slightly crunchy sugar icing that had been flavored with strawberries. She wished she hadn’t jammed it into her mouth rather than relishing it, bite by bite.
As the duke was doing. He took a bite, chewed it contemplatively, and then took another. Thoughts and impressions flickered across his face and she could see how deeply he appreciated Mrs. Catton’s craft.
She was so fascinated by watching him that when he gazed at her, she didn’t look away in time to disguise her interest. All she could do was stare at him and chew.
“You’ve . . .” He reached for her.
She held very still. His hand brushed the corner of her mouth. She felt the texture of his skin, its heat, the softness of her own flesh against his.
Turn your head, her body demanded. Just a little so you can draw his finger into your mouth. He’ll taste of green earth and sugar. And he’ll be warm. So warm.
But he drew his hand back before she could act on her mad impulse. A tiny fleck of icing clung to his fingertip.
He licked his finger.
She was not the sort of person who swooned. Yet watching the duke lick the very place on his finger that had touched her mouth . . .
“Judging by your silence, my lords and ladies,” Mrs. Catton said, dragging Jess back into the room, “you appreciate the fruits of my shop’s labors.”
Jess came to attention. She had provided a sample for the Bond Street shops, and she had learned from Mrs. Catton’s presentation that having a sample of her product was essential in gathering interest. But she couldn’t just march into Lord Trask’s drawing room with a bar of soap in her hand.
She did have one of the wrappers in her reticule.
Mrs. Catton continued, “This is why I believe expanding the range of Catton’s is a plan destined to flourish. The potential for success far outweighs any incurred risks.”
There was more talk, more analysis of operating costs and the means by which the satellite shops would be constructed, and discussion regarding staffing, which would affect the quality of the baked goods produced.
Jess had gleaned valuable knowledge today, but she fought to stay focused on her goal. She’d make use of the soap wrapper—the trick was figuring out how and when.
And her mind kept circling back to the duke. She could thoroughly describe the shape of the duke’s lips, and speculate on the feel of his tongue against her flesh. Tonight, she knew, she would dream of those lips, and then, just as now, she would struggle to think of a reason why she shouldn’t kiss them.
It came as no surprise at all to Jess that the duke had made arrangements for
a special private luncheon at an exclusive club in Belgravia, a short caravan’s ride from Catton’s.
“This is a gentlemen’s club,” Jess noted as she and the other guests climbed the short flight of stairs to the front door. She’d heard of the club through her careful perusal of newspapers, and that many significant financial and political understandings had been negotiated in its rarified atmosphere. “We don’t belong here.”
“You suggest that I am no gentleman?” The duke looked affronted, then a corner of his mouth hitched into a half smile. “Correct, madam. Only by breeding, but not behavior.”
“She means we ladies do not belong here.” Lady Haighe sniffed.
“Typically, women are not permitted entrance.” The duke stood back to allow the three females to cross the threshold. Once inside, Jess noted the foyer and the entire interior were paneled in dark wood with accents of blue-and-white porcelain here and there. “But it took very little persuading for the proprietors to change their minds about their policy. For the next two hours, in any event.”
A man in livery gestured for everyone to move toward a large parlor, which they did.
“Surely the request coming from a duke had nothing to do with it.” Jess stepped into the room. Long banquet tables had been arranged in a horseshoe shape, draped with snowy-white linen tablecloths. Sparkling silver and gilt-edged china had already been laid out in anticipation of the Bazaar guests.
“It was merely my oratory skills that persuaded them,” the duke said. “And the tureens full of money. And, Lady Whitfield,” he added in a lower voice, “once again I must ask for your forgiveness.”
“This was all organized before you realized the error of your ways,” she said wryly.
“The error of one of my ways. I’m rather fond of my others.”
She shook her head. Blast the man for being so bloody charming.
The gentlemen waited to take their seats until after the women had done so. Fortunately, several people sat between Jess and the duke, with Baron Mentmore beside her. After being thoroughly distracted by the duke at Catton’s, she needed all of her attention and concentration for this luncheon.