Engaged in Passion (A Bridal Favors Novella) (2 page)

So he pulled up his most charming smile and stepped around the table. The woman was just straightening from her crouch, but his appearance made her leap up even faster, her hand going to her mouth in alarm.

"Sir!" she squeaked—her voice high and tight—and he mourned the loss of her throaty, relaxed chuckle. He mourned also the view he had of her, bouncing up before him like that.

Judging from the shapeless dress, the woman was oversized. Plump. There was no more delicate way to put it. Plus her hair was pulled too tightly back from her face, giving the impression that she was perpetually startled. Or perhaps in a very strong wind.

And yet, even as he absorbed her appearance, he could not forget her laugh or her voice. He longed to hear it again, even as he mentally classified her appearance as somewhat below average.

"My apologies," he said as he gave her a bow. "I did not mean to startle you."

"I..." She bit her lip and looked around almost in panic. "I'm just not used to anyone coming here. They all know it's my time to cook. Everyone, that is, but this greedy thing." She gestured to the kitten who had managed to wrap the ribbon more tightly around itself and was right then chewing on a ragged edge.

He crouched down, using the kitten as an excuse to linger. "So you are the cook here?"

"Goodness no!" He heard a note of wistfulness in her voice. "I make the desserts. Since everyone likes them, they let me have the kitchen on alternate afternoons."

He took an appreciative sniff. Cinnamon and apple. "It smells wonderful."

"They should be out in a bit. I was just cleaning up." She looked at a large bucket filled with dirty bowls, but everything else about the room was pristine. "Come back in an hour. The real cook will give you a tart."

"It seems to me that you are a real cook, if the smell is anything to judge by."

She flushed and looked down, her skin becoming the color of a flower petal. A pink rose on white. He saw it and he could not look away, which left them a pretty pair, she staring at the floor and he transfixed by her face.

They might have remained frozen like that for hours if not for his father. The man had a way of clearing his throat that could silence a room. It never failed to jolt Anthony to his feet, and it did so now.

"Sir!" he cried on his way to his feet.

"I thought I heard your voice," his father snapped. "What are you doing in the kitchen?"

He didn't have a ready excuse. It wasn't like he could say he'd been distracted by a throaty laugh and creamy white skin. For one thing, his father would never believe him. He was not usually a man to be distracted by such things, not when a business opportunity was at hand.

Fortunately, while he was scrambling for something to say, the Not-Cook answered for him, her voice taking on a tone of caustic authority despite her polite words.

"It was my fault entirely. I'm afraid I required someone to help me lift that pot." She gestured to a gleaming thing set neatly on the sideboard. "He was nearby, so I asked him to help. Have I delayed him from something important?"

His father dipped his head in a minimal kind of bow. "Nothing of significance. Assuming, of course, he leaves immediately." That last was accompanied by a dark look at the woman.

Anthony frowned, surprised momentarily into silence. His father clearly disliked this woman. It wasn't anything overt, but Anthony knew his father well. There was a clear distaste for the Not-Cook. What could she possibly have done to earn such scorn from his usually unflappable father? It didn't matter. She was lovely and sweet, and he had no desire to insult her. So Anthony faced her directly and gave her a respectful bow.

"Thank you for allowing me to help," he said. "I enjoyed it and your kitten." Then he straightened. "Did you need anything else?"

She stared at him, her mouth going slack in astonishment. Then her eyes darted to his father before returning back to him. "Um, no," she finally managed, her voice dimmed somehow from confusion. "Th-thank you. You have been... very nice." Then she bit her lip and turned away, another blush coloring the white of her skin.

A lovely sight, until it was ruined by his father's sniff and more stern words. "I believe your food is burning," he said coldly. "Come along Anthony. Mr. Richards is not a patient man."

The woman started, and then said a very unladylike curse. She was already pulling open the oven, her back to the room at large. Clearly she was busy, and he was late. So much as he wanted to linger, Anthony knew now was not the time. He gave her another quick nod even though she wasn't looking, and rushed around the table to join his father who was already striding through the house. They left the servants' area and crossed into the main house. A moment later, he was ushered into the presence of the very formidable Mr. Richards.

"Look sharp!" his father snapped under his breath.

Anthony didn't need the reminder. It was imperative that he focus. Mr. Richards had the power to make Anthony's career and assure his future. So why was he still thinking about a pink blush on creamy white skin?

* * *

The tarts were ruined, ruined, ruined! Francine cursed herself as an idiot, a fool, and a stupid, stupid woman, all in rapid succession. It took her at least a minute to stop her mental tirade. She knew she was being ridiculous. All she'd done was get distracted and ruin maybe a half-shilling's worth of ingredients. Her father was Mr. Richards, the wealthiest milliner in England. They could afford it. She'd miss hearing the servants' enthusiastic, "Thank you, Miss. It was the best I ever ate, Miss." And even if that was the best part of her day, there was no reason to be upset that these tarts were inedible. She'd make more the day after tomorrow.

But even as she railed, she knew the truth. She wasn't going to miss all the servants' compliments. She'd miss the moment when
he
said it. Anthony. That was his name. Mr. Pierce had called him Anthony, and thinking about the two men now, she realized that they looked very similar in build and appearance. Both were tall without being towering. Narrow build, rather squarish jaw, and warm brown eyes the color of dark bread fresh from the oven. Anthony had dark sable hair, slightly curly, especially around the ears. Mr. Pierce's hair was lighter with streaks of blond or perhaps gray. Either way, the conclusion was obvious. The two were related; probably father and son, and that realization depressed her to no end. The elder Mr. Pierce despised her, which meant that it wouldn't be long before the son did as well.

She might have had a chance if Anthony had eaten one of her tarts today. He would take a bite, his head would drop back slightly, and he might even moan in delight. Then after the sweet was all gone, he would smile at her and say that her tart was the best thing he'd ever eaten.

Except that would never happen now. The tarts were completely ruined!

She plopped down on the stool, staring morosely at the burned crusts. She reached out and poked one of them, thinking that perhaps it wasn't as brown underneath. Her finger went right through.

"Ow!" she cried, pulling out her burned finger. She quickly stuck it in her mouth, analyzing the taste of the apple tart even as her eyes watered from the pain. Too much cinnamon. Maybe a little more mace, a little less butter.

Oh, what did it matter anyway? Just out of spite she poked her finger into another tart, but not enough to really burn herself. Just enough for her to peel back the crust and pop it in her mouth.

Blech
. But she kept eating anyway. He'd been so nice and so handsome there in her kitchen. He'd petted her kitten under the chin, and she'd melted inside, to see his long, lean fingers so gentle with Ginger. Then he had spoken nicely and respectfully to her even though she was fat and a shrew. She knew he was merely being polite, but that made her like him even more.

And now it was all ruined because Mr. Pierce had interrupted them, and Mr. Pierce was his father. And most of all because Mr. Pierce
hated
her. He had reason to, of course. She'd been mean to everyone at one time or another, so they all hated her. Except when she made tarts and cakes. They liked those, so they were nice to her then. And she, in turn, was nice back.

It was the best time of her day, and now she'd ruined it.

The tarts were cool enough now to eat, not that anyone would want to. She grabbed another one and started nibbling at it.
Yuck
. But she ate it anyway, punishing herself with her own disastrous cooking.

Chapter 2

Francine felt like a garden bush. A big, fat, in-the-way bush planted on a chair in the middle of a party. And she didn't belong here any more than a bush did.

She sipped her lemonade, pursing her lips when she realized her glass was empty. Sadly, that left nothing blocking her view of the dress her mother had thought was so beautiful. It was light brown with big roses painted on it. That was bad enough, but her mother had insisted the seamstress add rosettes to make the gown more interesting. Francine thought it made the dress bumpy and she hated wearing it, but her mother insisted it was lovely and hadn't her mother caught the best man in her social circle? Didn't her mother know best?

Francine wasn't sure, but as she had no real idea how to dress herself, it didn't matter. She wore the patterns her mother designed and sat like a fat bush in the middle of the drawing room and felt absolutely miserable.

Tonight was supposed to be fun. It was a small gathering at the home of her best friend from school. Amelia Fisher, now Mrs. Amelia Wensley, was having a casual evening of music and dancing for all her old friends and their new husbands. All of them were married now, except for Francine. So in deference to Francine's unwedded state, Amelia had invited a number of eligible gentleman plus a few young girls to balance out the numbers. Upon hearing that, Francine's mother had declared that this was a perfect opportunity for Francine to demonstrate that an older woman is much more interesting than a girl fresh from the nursery.

Mama had said a great deal more. She always did. She'd warned Francine to focus on any aristocratic gentlemen, to not get distracted by her friends, and to practice her feminine wiles on the men. She even declared that Francine was old enough to go without a chaperone as this was not a
ton
party.

Then there were all the things that weren't said out loud, but had been made clear over the years. As her father was such a business success, it was up to her to complete the family's transition from wealthy cits to members of the aristocracy. The future generations depended upon her marrying up, and with Papa's money she should be able to catch a viscount at the very least. Her parents had done their part, and now it was up to her.

That was her parents' plan, and Francine had left for the party hoping it was true. Just because she'd been a complete failure so far didn't mean anything. Maybe tonight was the night when she'd meet a man who would propose to her. Maybe he would be a baron's son or a future earl. And maybe he would fall desperately in love with her. Then she could be married too and have babies and sit in the corner with Amelia and talk about teething or what her sweet cherub of a son had done just that morning.

But of course it hadn't happened. The gentlemen were interested in the pretty girls, the mothers were interested in discussing their children, and Francine was left to vegetate on a chair. She glanced at the clock. If she pled an illness, she could leave now, but then her mother would be at her bedroom door, asking why she'd left early. Best to endure for another hour, and then she could lie and say that she'd had a lovely time but there were no eligible bachelors there.

After all, the statement was half true. Despite Amelia's efforts on her behalf, no bachelor here had a title. Which meant her father wouldn't accept any of them, not that a one of them was asking.

"Did the lemonade offend you?" a very nice male voice asked. "I quite agree. It's a bit sour, but I'm not sure it deserves such a frightful grimace."

Francine looked up, slightly intimidated by the sight towering above her. It was Anthony, straight from her secret dreams, standing over her and smiling. She blinked three times just to be sure he was real.

He waited for her response, and she scrambled to find one, but she couldn't think. He couldn't possibly be real! But he was!

"Oh," he finally said, obviously deflated. "You don't remember me. I was the very rude gentleman who interrupted your play with the ginger kitten."