Chapter One #2
There was that lopsided smile of his again, and her insides stopped their giddy fluttering. They melted. “While I could eat a dozen, I shall not be greedy, Miss Felicity. Two will surely hold me until the refreshment table is replenished.”
“Two it shall be, then.” Felicity swallowed hard.
Mercy. She needed to stop squeaking like a mouse every time she spoke.
What would he surely think of her? Clearing her throat, she bent to set the flame beneath the coddler that Marcie had already filled with steaming water from the fire.
“And you recovered your horse, you said? Try not to be too angry with the stable lads. Sometimes the gates do not latch properly.”
“Oh, I cannot lay the blame at the stable lad’s feet.” Wakefield raked a hand through his gorgeously thick hair, settling it into a dashing arrangement of disarray. “I was the last at the stall. The fault is mine.”
A man who admits his own mistakes? Impressive.
After cracking the eggs into the porcelain cups that fit inside the egg coddler, she eased them down into their holders, then popped on the lid.
“It takes a rare gentleman to admit his own mistakes,” she said, then blushed and turned away. She should not have said that.
The dashing earl laughed. “I am not so rare.” He rose and joined her, leaning so close that it stole her breath away. “So that is how you coddle eggs. I never knew.”
She stood there, blinking like a hopelessly tongue-tied owl.
He was actually talking to her and not down to her.
“Uhm…yes. The water comes to a boil, heats the cups, and cooks the eggs to the perfect jamminess for nice, toasty soldiers to dip into.” The soldiers.
She needed to toast the bread. “Heavens! I must make haste, or the eggs will grow cold waiting for your toast.”
“You are a wonder, Miss Felicity. My angel who has saved me from starvation.”
His angel? Her cheeks burned as hot as if she had touched them to the silver coddler.
“I am sure if I were not here, Mrs. Amesbury or Marcie would have been more than happy to feed you.” She concentrated on cutting the bread to avoid looking into those hazel eyes of his that seemed to be filled with so much sincerity; she wondered if she were dreaming.
He was being nice to her. Her. Felicity.
The least desirable and fattest of the litter, as she had overheard one cruel lordling say.
“Ahh…but would they have done it with such care?” He returned to his seat, seeming to sense that his nearness made her nervous. “I am quite the eloquent earl, you know.”
She glanced up from the bread she was carefully toasting over the fire, certain he was making fun of her this time. But he wasn’t. “Is that so?”
“Yes, and the tempting aroma of that buttery toast threatens to make me wax poetic.”
“Indeed?” She had no idea how to respond to that as she transferred the slices to a plate, cut them into soldiers, and set the plate in front of him. When he reached for one, without thinking, she threatened to smack his hand away. “Not yet. Wait for the eggs so you may dip them.”
He grinned and folded his hands in front of his plate. “Yes, ma’am.”
“It will only be a moment.” With the greatest of care, she lifted the porcelain cups out of the coddler and set them on a plate. After seasoning them to what she considered perfection, she placed them in front of him and nodded. “Now.”
After the first bite, he closed his eyes and groaned so loudly that Mrs. Amesbury and the rest of the maids at the far end of the kitchen turned and stared.
“Bliss,” he said. “Pure, unadulterated bliss.” He proceeded to finish off the first egg with such alarming speed that Felicity wondered if she should’ve coddled four instead of two. When had the poor man last eaten?
“Shall I prepare more for you?” she asked. “The rout cakes have just now gone into the oven and will be some time.”
“Nay, Miss Felicity.” He pressed a hand to his heart. “The first egg took the edge off; the second is to savor. But first, I must recite the verse that sprang to mind while I was lost in the wondrous delirium of those exquisite bites. Would you be offended by an impromptu poem?”
She couldn’t help but arch a brow as she wiped her hands on her apron. “It depends on the poem.”
He grinned. “’Tis naught but an ode to the fair maiden’s coddled eggs.”
Felicity noticed that all the scullery maids had, surprisingly, disappeared into the pantry.
Only Mrs. Amesbury remained somewhat in the large kitchen, and the dear old soul stood in the pantry’s doorway with her back to Felicity and her guest. Rather obvious, if she did say so herself.
She would be having a word with the matchmaking cook.
Felicity accepted Lord Wakefield’s offer with a gracious nod. “I would be honored to hear your poem.”
He wiped the corners of his mouth and sat straighter with his hand pressed to his heart once more. “‘Ode to the Fair Maiden’s Coddled Eggs’ by an importunate breakfast admirer—namely me:
Oh, gentlest lass of aproned grace,
With blush upon thy lovely face,
Thy dainty hand, so deft, so fleet,
Prepares a most celestial treat.
No feast of kings, nor banquet grand,
Could tempt as doth thy silver hand—
To crack the shell with tender care,
And stir with spoon both light and fair.
In porcelain cup of purest white,
Thy eggs do bask in steamy light,
Like clouds that dream in buttered skies,
And melt beneath thy watchful eyes.
Thy spices fall with noble air—
A pinch of salt, a peppered prayer;
A whisper of the nutmeg’s kiss,
A sigh of thyme, a swirl of bliss.
No evening chorus quite compares
To thee in thy domestic lairs,
As thou dost tend the simmering flame
And gently call each yolk by name.
For not alone thy eggs are warm—
Thy smile too holds a softened charm;
Thy kitchen is a hallowed space
Where hunger yields to art and grace.
So here I sit, with heart o’erthrown,
Beside thy dish, my love full-blown.
Not for the eggs—though rich, divine—
But for the hand that coddles mine.”
He finished with a dramatic flourish of his hand. “And that, Miss Felicity, is what you inspired.”
Eyes stinging with tears of delight, she was rendered speechless. “Oh…my.” The last stanza played over and over in her mind. So here I sit, with heart o’erthrown, beside thy dish, my love full blown. Not for the eggs—though rich, divine—but for the hand that coddles mine.
She swallowed hard and shook some sense into herself.
Good heavens. The man was jesting because she had cooked him some eggs to make up for his missing dinner.
When one was fed, it automatically put one in a jolly mood.
She was a ninny for taking it to heart. “You were quite right, Lord Wakefield. You are most certainly an eloquent earl.” She heartily clapped as if at the theater. “Bravo! Bravo!”
“I meant every word,” he said as he popped the last bit of toast into his mouth and chewed as if it were the most delicious morsel on earth.
“I cannot thank you enough for this delightful repast that will certainly go far in holding me over until the rout cakes come out of the oven.” As he rose from the stool, he wiped his mouth and hands with the kitchen rag Felicity provided, then gave her a heartfelt bow.
“I suppose I should return to the other guests now, even though the company here in this room has been most enjoyable.”
She bowed her head to hide another furious blush as she curtsied. “Thank you, my lord. I do hope you enjoy the remainder of your evening.”
He nodded again, waved to Mrs. Amesbury, then dashed out of the kitchen.
“Go after him,” the portly cook said while pointing at the door. “Never in all my life has anyone ever recited a poem to me for my coddled eggs.”
“Yes, indeed,” Marcie chimed in as she rushed to peek after him. “Such a handsome man! He had all the girls sighing. And him an earl too, my lady. You best go get him afore one of them other ladies snaps him up.”
Felicity shooed them away, refusing to take their words to heart. “He was merely flirting because he thought me one of the servants. You know how some gentlemen can be. If I went out there and revealed my true identity, he would be beside himself trying to find a means of escape.”
Mrs. Amesbury shook her head and clucked like a nesting hen. “You have the wrong of it, my lady. Surely you do. Have you no mirrors at Broadmere Hall?”
Felicity ignored her even though she wished upon all her being that what Mrs. Amesbury and Marcie hinted at were true.
That Lord Wakefield was attracted to her, and if he knew who she really was, he would seek her out for her company and not merely her ample dowry.
Past experience had taught her all about that awful tendency, too.
The road to matrimony for love was treacherous and cruel.
She shook the unhappy thoughts away. Time to return to her first love: cooking. “Marcie, are the almonds finished blanching? If so, I can start grinding them and get those treats out that door before Lady Atterley decides to make a personal visit to the kitchens.”
“She will understand,” Marcie said. “She knows well enough how the vicar and Lady Urnstall have never met a bit of food they would turn away.”
“But Lady Felicity be right. If no food goes out that door soon, Lady Atterley will come in here and discover her, then Lady Serendipity and His Grace will soon follow, and they’ll be giving her a harsh scolding.
” Mrs. Amesbury shooed the maids back to work.
“We do not wish our visits with our Felicity stopped. Off with you now. Check those rout cakes, and surely those biscuits are done by now too.”