Chapter Three
Pamela stretched and snuggled back beneath her covers. She hadn’t been this cosy since she had been forced to leave her bedroom at the vicarage behind.
In those days her dreams had been full of Alan, her future husband. Both sets of parents had approved their marriage and she had romanticised her future as a soldier’s wife. His death, an accident while on manoeuvres, had been a terrible shock, not the least because they had anticipated their wedding vows. An awful truth she would have to admit to any man who might propose marriage in the future. She shook her head at her foolish thoughts. As if that was ever going to happen. Marriage was out of the question.
She was now an independent woman, earning her own living. It wasn’t quite as easy as one might expect, but it provided a good deal of satisfaction.
Somewhere in the distance a cockerel crowed. She had work to do. A kitchen to ready for the next onslaught of His Lordship’s ‘servants’, people who earned their keep by turning cards and rolling dice in the employ of a man she didn’t trust an inch. She grimaced. She did not believe a word of his explanation the previous evening and not just because he had made her stomach flutter in a most inappropriate way.
That he had done on purpose. Standing so close. Looking down at her as if she was a mouse to be gobbled up by a cat.
She could not help recalling how handsome he had looked in his evening clothes, the way he’d surveyed his domain as he called it. He’d looked elegant and devastatingly charming when he’d smiled at one of his guests. Her stomach fluttered anew.
Dash it. She would do very well to avoid him if that was the sort of reaction he caused.
She forced herself to throw the covers back, but instead of the usual chilly air of a servant’s attic, the room was warm and welcoming.
She lit a candle and prepared for her day.
As she washed and dressed, she found herself humming. She paused. What was that song?
A waltz. How odd. She must have heard it the previous evening.
She brushed her hair and pinned it neatly under her cap, then went to prepare the breakfast table in the dining hall. Most of the houses she had worked in fed the servants early in the morning, before they began their duties, but here there were no servants except her. All she had to do was prepare a breakfast for the Earl and his friend Monsieur Phillippe.
At the kitchen door, she halted on the threshold. Her heart gave an odd little thump.
Oh! What on earth was he doing here? The Earl himself.
‘Good morning, Mrs Lamb.’
She glared at him. ‘I hardly expected to see you so early this morning, My Lord.’
He blinked and shook his head as if to clear it. No doubt he had imbibed too much the previous evening. ‘Really—why not?’
‘If I am not mistaken, your guests did not depart until the small hours, which means I expected you to be still abed. Now if you will excuse me, I have breakfast to prepare.’
‘That is why I am here—I am starving.’
‘Breakfast will be available in the servants’ hall shortly, as per your instructions.’
He gave her that charmingly boyish smile, the one that caused her mind to go blank and her heart to flutter. ‘I am hungry enough to eat a horse right now.’
He sounded like a wheedling lad instead of the arrogant nobleman she knew him to be. But she could hardly deny a meal to her employer.
‘Very well. Would scrambled eggs suit you?’
‘A bit of bacon with it wouldn’t go amiss.’
She couldn’t hold back a chuckle. ‘Very well, bacon and coffee. Shall I bring it to the servants’ hall or...?’ There had to be a dining room, she just hadn’t seen it.
‘I don’t want to put you to any trouble,’ he said, almost meekly. ‘I can eat here.’ He sat down at the end of the kitchen table.
Meek? Hardly. This man would never be anything but demanding and commanding. And his presence in her kitchen unnerved her. ‘I have a great deal to do this morning.’ Oh, dear, that sounded a bit rude.
He seemed to take it in stride. ‘Then you should not waste your time bringing me a tray.’
He was clearly determined to have his way. And she did have a great deal to do. Instead of arguing, she needed to give him his breakfast and send him on his way.
She gathered her supplies from the pantry and set out what she needed. She would have to wait to break her fast until he was gone.
As she worked, he sat silently watching. She tried hard to ignore his presence, but failed. Her hand shook as she poured coffee into a mug for him and one for her.
She passed him the cream and sugar, which he refused. She added generous dollops of each to her own cup.
The fire was now hot enough for cooking and so, after a few sips of coffee, she fried the bacon, scrambled two eggs and cooked two slices of toast.
‘That bacon smells delicious,’ he said as she served him.
‘It is excellent,’ she replied. ‘Not too lean, but meaty.’
She handed him a knife and fork and a napkin and began scrubbing down the stove.
‘Where is your home?’ he asked.
‘My home?’ The question took her aback. She turned to face him.
He picked up his coffee cup with one eyebrow raised. He wanted an answer.
‘I grew up in a small village in Kent, Bexley.’
He nodded slowly. ‘I see.’
‘And you?’ she asked feeling emboldened by his interest.
‘Here, at this house. And in Marseilles.’
‘France. I have never travelled outside England. How interesting it must have been.’ She turned back to her work.
‘Interesting is one word for it.’
‘What word would you use?’
‘Educational.’
There was a tinge of wryness in his tone, but she could not read much in his expression when she glanced back at his face. ‘Travel broadens the mind, they say.’
He chuckled and there was a warmth in that soft sound this time. Her stomach gave a little hop.
Most unnerving.
‘They do say so indeed,’ he said and bit into his toast with strong white teeth. Why did he have to look so gorgeous simply chewing on a bite of toast?
She forced herself to turn back to her work. Keeping her hands busy meant she would not be tempted to stand gazing at him like a besotted fool.
By the time she had cleaned the top of the stove, His Lordship was rising to his feet. To her surprise, he took his plate and cup to the sink, passing close behind her. She froze, but he did not touch her or even seem to notice.
‘Thank you for accommodating me,’ he said.
‘You were quick,’ she said, then wished she had bitten her tongue. It was not her place to comment on his speed and she could not help but feel pleased that he had enjoyed his meal. She put a pan of water on the hob to heat for washing up.
‘I learned early to eat fast or risk going hungry,’ he said, seemingly unperturbed.
‘At school, I suppose,’ she said. She’d heard that some of the schools the boys attended were quite beastly.
His chuckle had a bitter edge. ‘I suppose you could call it a school.’
Puzzled she turned to face him, but he was already halfway out of the door and did not turn back to explain. What on earth could he mean by that cryptic comment?
Replete from the delicious breakfast, Damian made his way to his study. He needed to tally up last night’s income. Setting up Rake Hall had cost him a pretty penny, but it was starting to pay for itself.
He sat down at his desk and pulled out the tin box containing money and vowels.
He paused for a moment, thinking about breakfast. He could not recall when he had enjoyed a meal more.
The eggs were light and fluffy and seasoned just right, the bacon curled at its crispy edges and she had presented him with some perfectly browned toast, butter and preserves to finish it off.
But more than that, he had enjoyed watching her work. The swift sure way she beat the eggs, the turning of the bacon and the toast at just the right moment.
She knew her business.
Which, when you thought about it, was exceedingly odd for the daughter of a vicar and the cousin of at least one earl and a couple of barons. Daughters of the nobility did not know how to cook as a rule.
His investigations had revealed that the vicar had not left his family well off when he died, which was strange in and of itself, but somehow, he had not expected her to support herself by her own industry. Her mother certainly had not, marrying at the first opportunity. It was odd that the daughter had not chosen the same path to comfort.
Fortunate, given his plan. And that was not a pang of regret.
He had buckled down to work and by midday had finished.
Time to check in with Pip. He stretched his arms over his head. Paperwork: it was the bane of his life. A necessary evil. He shrugged into his coat and strolled out to the stables.
He met Pip in the courtyard on his way into the house.
‘Good morning.’
Pip grinned and shook his hand. ‘Bonjour, mon ami. Are we rich?’
‘Not yet.’ He grimaced. ‘We still have some way to go before we have recovered our investment. But we will. A few more evenings like last night and you will never need to work again.’
‘Good. You have no need to check on the stables, if that is where you were going. All is under control.’
‘Then you have no need to check in on the kitchen.’ Now why the hell had he added that?
Pip’s eyes gleamed with amusement. ‘Bien sur. I will be heading back to Town once my bag is packed. Will you come with me?’
‘No. I will return in a couple of days. There are a few things here that require my attention. I noticed another leak in the roof. It would not do to have the ceiling fall down on our patrons.’
The smile on his friend’s face became more mischievous. ‘Or on the new cook.’
Damian let the comment pass. He was used to Pip’s teasing. Or at least he should be, but he still felt a surge of irritation at his friend’s obvious interest in Mrs Lamb. ‘Well, if there is nothing for me to do in the stables, I’ll take my walk around the property and see what other repairs are needed.’
Pip nodded. ‘Very well. I look forward to seeing you in London in a few days.’
Damian meandered across the lawn with no clear destination in mind and found himself approaching the orangery—a glass structure set facing south against the wall along one side of the formal gardens.
He frowned. Someone had left the door open.
He hadn’t been in the building since he had returned from France. Nor could he recall whether, the last time he had passed by the building, the door had been open or closed.
Perhaps the door had been left ajar years ago when his family fled for the Continent.
The dark sky made it gloomy inside. That and the smell of rotting vegetation. Bare branches added to the sense of death.
To his astonishment, Mrs Lamb was poking around in one of the large containers at the far end. It contained a small tree sporting the only green leaves in the building. She was the last person he wanted to meet.
Or was she? He sauntered between the rows of clay pots, the carpet of dead leaves crunching underfoot, wondering how long it would be before she noticed his approach.
She glanced up as he drew near. ‘Oh. It is you.’ Displeasure filled her expression.
What had he done? ‘Why are you in here?’ He sounded a little more brusque than he intended.
‘It is an orangery. I was looking for oranges.’ She must have seen his disbelief because she continued, ‘I thought to make some marmalade.’ She shook her head. ‘Unfortunately, most of the trees are dead. They have been left without water.’
Another act to lay at the feet of his enemies. Dead fruit trees. Not the worst of their crimes, to be sure.
She tipped her basket towards him and in the bottom sat three small oranges. ‘I did find this one tree with fruit. There is water dripping down from somewhere. It kept the tree alive. Let me show you.’
She spoke as if she had found a treasure.
Bemused, and very slightly enchanted by her enthusiasm—only very slightly—he followed the direction of her pointing finger.
‘I think the water must come in somewhere up there.’
The glass panes above their heads were filthy, but he could indeed see streaks in the dirt cause by trickling water. Higher up the glass was cracked.
He grimaced. ‘Something must have broken the pane. Perhaps a tree branch in a storm.’
She gave a little shiver. ‘Indeed. Well, I suppose it is an ill wind. The other trees are truly dead, but this one can be saved, if you’ve a mind.’
About to say it wasn’t worth the trouble, the hope in her voice gave him pause. ‘Perhaps.’
She tipped her head. ‘Don’t you care that this poor tree has struggled onwards in the face of terrible neglect?’
‘There are other things more important than an orange tree demanding my attention at the moment.’
Disappointment filled her expression. ‘Your house parties.’
‘Indeed.’
She made a face of distaste. ‘As you wish.’
How was it possible she could make him feel guilty about a tree? And what right had she to judge him about his way of making a living? Damn her. If not for the actions of her father, it would never have been necessary.
‘I shouldn’t think those oranges are worth the time. Better to put them in the slop bucket.’
‘Well, I don’t know about you, but I like marmalade with my toast and, since it is my time, I—’
‘Time I pay for is my time,’ he said mildly, but still she shot him a glare.
‘You do not pay for all of my time. There are hours that belong to me, My Lord.’
Should he point out that the sugar she would add to the fruits, the wood she would use for the stove and the pots and pans and jars were all his? He opened his mouth.
Off in the distance, thunder rumbled.
Mrs Lamb froze. ‘A storm?’
Genuine fear. The desire to put a protective arm around her shoulders took him by surprise. He restrained the urge. ‘Yes,’ he said, coolly, unfeelingly.
She glanced upward with a shiver. ‘Excuse me. I will return to the house.’ She moved past him.
The clean smell of soap blended with, of all things, the scent of orange filled his nostrils. A surprisingly enticing combination. The desire to inhale more of it had him following her, the rustle of dead leaves marking their passing. Outside, she pulled her shawl over her head, picked up her skirts and ran for the house.
Only by strength of will did he refrain from following to ensure she arrived safely.
Devil take it.
Never mind the orange trees. Lives had been ruined and that required payment.
To Pamela’s relief the storm that had threatened earlier in the day had passed by with only a few distant rumbles. She’d spent until mid-afternoon organising the kitchen cupboards and preparing dinner for her employer—since he had not left with Monsieur Phillippe—a roast of beef and a selection of vegetables along with a game pie and some soup. To be served in the servants’ hall.
It really was not right that a titled gentleman should eat in such lowly quarters, even if he was the only person dining.
She removed her apron and, taking the ring of keys she had discovered in a drawer, set off to explore the house, to see if she could discover a more suitable dining room.
Clearly the ballroom and the dining room used for his guests were too large. His study was unsuitable since it lacked a proper table, so she wandered along corridors, peeping into each room she passed. The library she had visited yesterday was devoid of any furniture and the empty shelves were covered in dust.
Without much hope, she threw open the last door along the wing and peered into a dark room with chinks of light showing here and there through the shutters along one wall. She picked her way across and with a little effort opened one of the heavy wooden shutters to reveal a magnificent view of the park.
The room was not large, but it was exactly what she had been seeking. Pleasant surroundings and no dust. A drawing room. No doubt the table in the centre was intended to be used for playing games of chance rather than for eating, but with a table cloth, it would perfectly adequate for one or two diners.
She threw back the rest of the shutters. Given the state of most of the house she was surprised to find this room in such good order. The only drawback was its distance from the kitchen.
A problem she could solve, surely?
If she got everything ready beforehand and put all the hot items on one large tray, perhaps it would work.
And when Monsieur Phillippe was also in residence, he could do the fetching and carrying.
It was exceedingly strange that neither one of them had a valet and His Lordship did not keep at least one footman to take care of the house. Instead, they ferried servants back and forth from London at what must be a considerable expense. If the gambling was not illegal, as His Lordship claimed, then there must be something else nefarious going on.
She recalled the way Meg and the others had laughed about the upstairs rooms being ready. Perhaps it was there she would find her answers.
She picked up the keys from the table where she had put them while she opened the shutters and made her way to the narrow staircase at the end of the hall.
She hesitated. It really was none of her business.
She glanced down the staircase. Was it possible there was a shorter route to the kitchen beneath the courtyard? If so, it would make using the room a great deal more convenient. Would it not make more sense if she explored in that direction instead?
His Lordship might say everything was above board, but, from what she had learned over the past several years, many men said anything to get their own way.
Like her stepfather trying to push her into a marriage with his friend, a man old enough to be her father. She quelled a shudder.
Before she could change her mind, she ran upwards. A quick glance was all she would need to satisfy her curiosity and hopefully put her mind to rest.
The first door she came to did not open when she turned the handle. Locked.
She tried first one key, then another. None of them fit. Bother.
‘Can I be of assistance?’ a deep voice enquired.
His Lordship. Her heart sank. She turned to face him. To her surprise and relief, his expression was one of interest, not anger.
‘I...er... I was seeking a place where you might dine, other than the servants’ hall.’
A dark brow winged upwards. ‘Among the bedrooms?’
Dash it. ‘No. I found the perfect room downstairs and then came up here, curious about something one of the maids said.’
He drew closer. ‘What sort of something?’
She tried to ignore his proximity, the way he loomed over her, the way he made her feel overwhelmed and breathless.
It was hard to ignore when her heart galloped so hard.
She took a deep steadying breath. ‘It wasn’t so much what she said, as the way she giggled when she was asked if the bedrooms were ready. It struck me as odd since you said your guests were not staying the night.’
A rather mischievous smile curved his lips. ‘I can see how that would pique your interest, Mrs Lamb. Why she would giggle, I cannot guess, but these rooms are used by my guests when they require a little privacy. They are generally called retiring rooms, n’est ce-pas?’
Oh. Retiring rooms, where a lady must go to use the necessary. And possibly a gentleman, too. It was so obvious, why hadn’t she thought of it? Was she so determined to see problems at every turn in regard to this man? ‘I see. Thank you. Well, if you will excuse me—’
He reached out a hand. ‘Where did you get the keys?’
Swallowing, she glanced down at the ring of keys clutched in her hand. ‘I found them in a drawer in the kitchen.’
‘May I see?’ His tone brooked no argument and, indeed, why would she argue? This was his house after all.
She held them out.
His wary expression cleared. ‘Those are for the cellars. Now, you said you had discovered a suitable dining room. Would you care to show it to me?’
As if she had any option.
He shepherded her towards the staircase. Not that she had any objections to showing him. She was pleased with her find.
‘This way,’ she said.
He followed her downstairs and along the ground floor corridor. She opened the door to the small chamber. ‘What do you think?’
His silence caused her to look up. The genial expression had been replaced with...sadness?
How ironic that this woman had declared this room as perfect. This had been his mother’s favourite place to spend her days with her needlework or taking tea with her friends. It was the room whose loss his mother had bemoaned constantly in their draughty two-room apartment in Marseilles.
When he first returned to the house, Damian had suffered an urge to restore this chamber to its former glory. His memories of the house and park were vague, but this room remained etched in his mind by way of her description. He’d done his best to recreate it and had been pleased with the result.
Even so, whenever he entered this room, he felt the pain of loss. That his mother had not lived long enough to return here, to redo it herself, saddened him.
He should have left it well alone. It had been pointless and he couldn’t step foot in it without remembering her, and now this woman wanted him to eat in here. Damien tamped down his emotions. Or at least he attempted to sound calm.
‘It is not a dining room.’
‘No, but...’ she opened one of the shutters ‘...the view of the park is quite lovely and the table, while small, would work for two people. I would cover it with a heavy cloth so the wood is not damaged—’
‘I will dine in the servants’ hall as previously arranged.’
She spun around, obviously surprised and obviously planning to attempt to make her case.
His frown must have stopped her words, because she closed her mouth and folded her hands at her waist. ‘Very well.’
What the devil did she have to be disappointed about? ‘What does it matter where I eat as long as I do eat? You cannot tell me this is more convenient, for I am not a fool.’
‘No. No, indeed,’ she said hastily, edging towards the door. ‘If you wish to eat in the servants’ hall, it is of no matter to me.’
Damn it all. This was not what he intended to happen. He was supposed to be charming her, not acting like a bear with a sore head.
He strode to the window and looked out. In his mind’s eye he saw himself as a small boy running across the expanse of lawn trailing a kite, or sitting astride his first pony being led by a groom. But he no longer knew if these idyllic mental pictures were memories or merely stories told by his mother.
His clearest boyhood memories were of the stink of Marseilles’s streets lined with tenements and running with filth. Of stealing pocket handkerchiefs to buy food. More recently they were of making money gambling in taverns until he had enough saved to buy an establishment of his own.
He heard a sound behind him. She was leaving.
‘Wait.’
He turned back to face her. She straightened her shoulders as if bracing against more of his ill humour. ‘I will eat in here.’
Surprise crossed her face. ‘If you are sure?’
‘Why not? As you say, the surroundings are far more pleasant than downstairs. I will even show you a shortcut to the kitchens, if you wish.’
‘That would be most helpful, thank you.’
‘I am pleased to be of use.’ He could not keep the wry note out of his voice.
She stifled a chuckle. He grinned at her. ‘Come on. It’s this way.’
He guided her down the stairs. After lighting one of the lamps set on a chest at the bottom, he led her along the gloomy tunnel he had discovered when exploring the wine cellars.
She shivered.
‘Not afraid, are you?’ he said recalling her previous reaction to thunder.
‘Not at all. Just a little chilly.’
Yes, it was a great deal cooler down here and damp, too. He resisted a sudden urge to give her his coat and picked up his pace instead. ‘It won’t take long.’
‘This goes under the courtyard?’ Her voice echoed off the brick-lined walls.
‘It does.’ As they neared the end, he pointed to the doors on either side. ‘These are the wine cellars. They used to be full of wine sent down by my father and his father before him. All gone now, apart from what I have purchased myself. Everything from before was sold off to cover my father’s debts.’
‘Oh, dear,’ she said. ‘Was he also a gambler?’
He gritted his teeth at the implied criticism. His father had never gambled a penny in his life until her father had tempted him down the road to hell. ‘He certainly had a run of bad luck. But he wasn’t what you would call a dyed-in-the-wool gambler, no.’
‘I am sorry. It is none of my business.’
It was her business. But she did not need to know that yet. He pushed open the door at the end. ‘And here we are back at the kitchens.’
She looked up at him with a smile. ‘That is indeed a much faster way. I can deliver your food much more easily. Thank you.’
He smiled back. ‘My pleasure. Now if you will excuse me, I have some business that requires my attention elsewhere.’
‘Of course.’ She dipped a little curtsy.
A mad idea bounced into his head. He hesitated. When had he become so tentative? He always followed his instincts. They never let him down. ‘Since there is no one in residence at the moment, apart from you and me, you may as well join me for dinner.’
Her mouth dropped open. ‘I could not. It would not be right.’
The more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea. ‘Where is the sense in us each dining in a solitary state, using up candles in two rooms instead of one, when it would be far more economical to dine together?’
‘It isn’t appropriate.’
He sensed her weakening. ‘Who is to know? I won’t tell if you won’t. Either dine with me in the drawing room or provide my dinner in the servants’ hall and dine with me there. I am not asking.’
She huffed out a sigh. ‘Very well. I will dine with you in the drawing room, if you insist.’
‘I do.’
Before she could change her mind, he walked away. For several moments, he felt her watching him, as if trying to understand the reason behind his invitation.
The wariness in her face after he had made his suggestion warned him he would have to tread very carefully if he was not going to scare her off.
Having dinner with her employer was the stupidest thing she had ever done.
She should have left the issue of where he dined well alone and she would not be in this mess. But, no. She had to interfere.
She had already got a fire going in the drawing room, lit the candles and set the table. Now all that was required was the food.
She eyed the trays she had prepared to deliver to the dining room. Three trays, each platter with its own cover. By the time she had delivered all three, no doubt the dishes on the first one would be barely lukewarm.
Oh, yes, a very stupid idea.
And then there was what she was wearing. She had been torn between her usual serviceable grey gown and the gown she wore to church. A rare occurrence since she had been in service. The pale blue muslin had won out, but now she was regretting her choice. Too late to change. She slipped a shawl around her shoulders to keep out the chill in the tunnel and picked up the heaviest of the three trays.
‘Here, let me help you.’
She almost dropped the tray in shock.
He grabbed it.
‘I can manage,’ she said, hanging on to it a second longer than she should have.
‘I am sure you can.’ He smiled at her. ‘But it occurred to me that you might need to make more than one trip, unless you had some assistance.’
He looked lovely in his evening clothes. Suddenly she was very glad she had chosen her best dress. She could not help smiling back.
‘Thank you.’
He picked up the second tray, easily holding each tray in one hand, whereas she had struggled with the weight using both of hers. ‘Can you manage the last one?’ he asked.
‘Of course.’
‘Good, then we can make it in one trip, if you would be so good as to get the door.’
And so, with her opening doors for him, they made their way to the little drawing room.
‘If you would put your trays on the sideboard, there by the window,’ she said as they entered the room, ‘I think we can serve ourselves.’
He glanced around. ‘This all looks very cosy.’ He set the trays where she directed. ‘What delights do you have in store for me?’
She swallowed. Tonight he was clearly trying to be pleasant. Trying? He was devastatingly charming.
In the hopes of impressing him with her skill, she had thought most carefully about the menu. After all, feeding him was a great deal different than feeding his servants.
‘Would you care to pour yourself a libation,’ she said, ‘while I make things ready?’
She had set decanters of brandy, sherry and madeira on a small circular table beside one of the armchairs beside the hearth, where a fire burned merrily.
He walked over to inspect the offering. ‘Sherry for you?’ he asked.
Startled, she almost dropped the platter of vegetables. ‘Oh, no. Nothing for me, thank you. I will have water with dinner.’
Carefully, she organised the dishes on the sideboard and turned with a smile. He was watching her, while sipping on what must be sherry judging from the glass he was holding.
‘I hope the sherry is to your liking,’ she said. ‘I found it in the cellar you pointed out earlier.’
‘It is a very good sherry,’ he said, smiling at her. ‘I selected it myself.’
She felt her cheeks heat. She resisted the temptation to press her palms against them, to cool them.
‘Yes, of course. I beg your pardon.’
‘No need to apologise,’ he said cheerfully.
She finished laying out the dishes. ‘We can eat whenever you are ready.’ She gestured to the plates.
He set his glass down beside the decanters and strolled over to inspect her offerings. ‘I say, this looks marvellous.’
He seemed to be in the mood to be pleased. She began to relax.
‘If you would carve the beef and the chicken, and then help yourself to the other dishes, I think that would work very well. There is white wine in the cooler, or red wine, if you prefer.’
‘Wonderful,’ he said. He carved thin slices of the meat and put them on a plate, which, to her shock, he handed to her.
‘Oh, but—’
He chuckled. ‘Fill your plate with vegetables, Mrs Lamb, it would be a shame for everything to get cold while you dither.’
She repressed a smile and did as instructed. It was no good standing here arguing about protocol.
She took her plate to her place at the table and, to her surprise, he was there, pulling back her chair, helping her to sit. She could not remember the last time she had been treated like a lady.
Her heart picked up speed. She sat and smiled up at him. ‘Thank you.’
She waited for him to fill his plate and sit down.
He poured water for them both and then chose the white wine from the cooler and, without asking, poured them each a glass. ‘You have gone to a great deal of trouble, Mrs Lamb. Thank you.’ He raised his glass in a toast. ‘To the chef.’
Once more her cheeks felt hot. She picked up her glass of wine and tilted her head in acknowledgement of his toast. They both sipped.
The wine was delicious. Crisp and cold and slightly fruity.
‘Bon appetit,’he said and began to eat.
Her heart felt so full, she wasn’t sure she could eat a bite. But she had to, or he would wonder if there was a problem.
She cut into the chicken and was pleased to find it juicy and tender. The scalloped potatoes were cooked just right and the vegetables were perfect. She gestured to the small gravy boat. ‘Would you pass the gravy?’
‘I most certainly will. Can you pass the mustard, please?’
For a moment or two there was silence as they both took the edge off their hunger.
Abruptly, he put down his knife and fork. ‘Good Lord.’
She froze. Was something wrong?
‘This is far beyond anything I expected.’
‘I beg your pardon.’
‘This food. It is delicious.’
He sounded so disbelieving, a surge of anger rose up from somewhere deep inside. ‘Why would you be surprised?’
‘Because you are—’ He stopped and shook his head.
‘Because I am what? A woman? You did not think a woman would be able to cook as well as your fancy French chef?’
A guilty expression flashed across his face. He gave her a shamefaced smile. ‘I apologise. I must say, this meal is as good as, if not better than, anything Chandon has prepared over the past year. In my experience, all the best chefs are men. And usually French.’
She had the feeling he wasn’t speaking the entire truth. His reaction had been too extreme to match his reason.
But she was pleased by his compliment. She could hardly argue with his praise, even if something about it did not feel...honest. On the other hand, she was quite prepared to take issue with his premise. ‘I learned how to cook from a woman, actually. We females are not as incompetent as some men seem to believe.’ She hadn’t meant to sound quite so stiff or so censorious. ‘I am pleased you are enjoying the fruits of my labour.’ That was hardly better.
He picked up his knife and fork. ‘I am indeed.’
Damian covertly eyed his dinner companion. He had stupidly ruffled her feathers, when he had intended to enchant her.
What was it about this woman that caused him to lose his grip on his famous ability to charm birds out of trees? There wasn’t a woman in London who wasn’t susceptible, so the story went.
Pip would laugh his head off, if he knew how he had fumbled this one so badly.
‘You are right, my dear Mrs Lamb. Women are often underestimated.’
‘By men.’
He looked up and saw she was staring at him narrowed eyed, daring him to contradict her. Challenging.
He liked a challenge.
He finished his mouthful. ‘Are you saying that women do not encourage us males to think of them as weaker, less able, more in need of protection? Indeed, do not ladies like to think of themselves as the weaker sex, both physically and mentally?’
Her spine straightened. ‘Are you blaming women for their subjugation?’
‘It was a question.’
‘It was men who made the laws that define a wife as an extension of her husband, rather than a person in her own right. It was men who decided that an older daughter would be pushed aside by a younger brother.’
These were truths for which he had no answer. He had not thought about them terribly much, either. ‘Do you have a brother?’ He knew very well she did not, but she would not know that.
‘No. I am an only child.’
‘So you were not pushed aside?’
‘No. But I knew girls who were. What I could not understand was their meek acceptance of the situation. Or their willingness to marry whomever their father picked out, even if they loved another.’
He really had not expected her to be quite so militant. ‘This is a friend you are speaking of.’
‘Yes. A friend who gave up any chance for happiness, though she would never admit it.’
‘Because she did not stand up for herself, in your opinion.’
She gave him a suspicious glance, as if to see if his intention was to mock her opinions. Seemingly satisfied, she nodded. ‘She could have said no. Under the law, one cannot be forced into marriage.’
‘I think you are the sort of woman whom no one could force into anything. I admire your courage.’
A pained expression crossed her face. ‘Sadly, I do not believe I am at all courageous.’ She began eating again, as if to forestall herself from saying any more. He decided that it was best to change the subject.
‘And where did you learn to cook so masterfully?’
‘At home.’
‘Without wishing to pry, I would say that you were brought up to be a lady, rather than a cook.’
She frowned, looking worried. ‘Why would you think so?’
‘You are well educated, well spoken and well versed in the finest of table manners, for a start. And I noticed that among the items in your room is an embroidery hoop already decorated with the finest of stitches. Your family was never among the poor.’
She pressed her lips together, clearly deciding how much to admit. ‘You are observant, sir. It is true. My father was a gentleman. I learned to cook because I discovered a love for creating good food at a young age and I was indulged enough to be able to follow my passion. Now it is no longer a hobby, but the way I earn my bread, I am fortunate that passion and necessity collided.’
He raised his glass and smiled at her. ‘No, my dear Mrs Lamb, I believe it is I who am fortunate.’
Her eyes widened. A smile curved her lips. In that moment pleasure and beauty shone in her face. ‘Thank you, My Lord.’ She picked up her glass and drank.
He leaned back in his chair, replete with fine food and fine wine and finally able to relax. He had made her smile.
She cleared the dishes from the table and set them on the buffet.
‘Let me help you with that,’ he said. ‘Would you like me to help you carry them to the kitchen?
‘No need. I will collect everything in the morning.’ She offered him a shy glance. ‘I have one last treat in store, if you would care for dessert.’
Dessert? It was she who looked like a sweet treat in her gown the colour of forget-me-nots. Good enough to eat. ‘You are spoiling me.’
She rose and went to the buffet table. She bent to open its doors, presenting him with a view of her derrière, a beautifully rounded firm little bottom that he could imagine naked—He cut the thought off. What the devil was wrong with him?
She opened a door to reveal another, smaller cooler.
‘May I assist you with that?’ He was pleased that he sounded calm. Unaffected.
She glanced over her shoulder with a provocative smile. His heart skipped a beat.
‘I can manage, My Lord.’ She removed two small dishes, bumped the door closed with a seductive swing of her hip, leaving him dry mouthed, and brought the dishes to the table.
He forced himself to look at what she had placed before him and not the curves of her body that had just sent his body into a frenzy of lust the like of which he had not suffered since he was a youth.
‘Ice cream!’ he said, unable to resist grinning like a schoolboy.
‘Lemon ice, actually,’ she said as she sat down, ‘with a touch of orange.’
‘Made from the oranges in the greenhouse?’
She beamed. ‘Yes. How did you guess?’
He thought about it for a moment. He recalled their conversation, about her desire to save that tree. ‘You want to prove to me that the tree is worth saving.’
‘Oh, dear, am I so easily read? Please, try it. Tell me what you think?’
‘About the tree?’ he teased gently.
Her light laugh made his body hum. ‘No. About the dessert.’
While she watched him closely, he dipped his spoon into the oval yellow ice with a swirl of orange running through it. The taste was heavenly. Tart with a touch of sweetness and he could definitely distinguish both flavours. ‘It is delicious. Ambrosia.’
She nodded, clearly satisfied with his reaction. And he felt supremely glad that she was happy.
He smiled wryly at himself. This was what he had wanted, wasn’t it? To gain her trust. To seduce her the way her father had tempted his down a ruinous path.
He finished the dessert. ‘Thank you. That was indeed a treat.’
She took those dishes from the table and stacked them neatly.
She glanced over at the table with the decanters and glasses. ‘I expect you would like to partake of your port now.’
Was she trying to escape him? He wasn’t ready to let her go just yet.
‘Won’t you join me?’
She looked shocked.
Damn. ‘If you do not wish to partake of port, then I would be happy to join you in a cup of tea.’
Confusion filled her expression. ‘I did not think of bringing a tea tray, My Lord. I presumed that once dinner was over...’
‘I have an idea. Why don’t we carry the dishes back to the kitchen and have tea there?’
She looked doubtful. ‘Are you sure?’
‘It is the perfect solution. That way I can help you with the dishes and we can have a perfect ending to a delicious meal.’ He got up and started putting the leftovers on a tray. Somewhat unwillingly she filled the other tray.
‘Ready?’ he asked.