Never Resist Temptation (4 page)

The scene was strangely familiar, yet Jacobin had never been here before. She stood and gazed at the buildings for several minutes, something plucking at her
memory. Then she gave a gasp of recognition. It wasn't quite the same but very similar. Just on a smaller scale. She'd heard the place endlessly described by her mother and seen drawings of it. She'd even visited it once. It was almost as though her yearning for her native land had been answered.

“
L'hameau de la reine,
” she said out loud. “The queen's hamlet.”

“Quite so,” said a deep voice behind her, causing her to start. “Queen Marie Antoinette's folly, the model village where she played at shepherdess while her subjects starved.”

Storrington must have come up behind her while she stared at this little piece of France in the middle of Sussex. He stood beside her, quite at ease, dressed in casual country attire of buckskin breeches under a warm, knee-length coat. He went hatless, so the fashionable disorder of his hair had been exacerbated by the attentions of the wind. His eyes, appearing more blue than gray in the subdued autumnal landscape, shone from a face glowing with exercise. Her heart gave a little jump as they exchanged glances, then she looked away. But it wasn't in her nature to be demure or to let a falsehood go unchallenged.

“She never pretended to be a shepherdess, my lord. That was a canard invented by the queen's enemies.”

“As a daughter of the Revolution,” he said, “I would expect you to be eager to believe anything ill of the French royal family.”

Jacobin shook her head. “I hope my opinions would
never blind me to the truth. And in this case you are quite mistaken. I have nothing against the poor queen. And my mother admired her greatly.”

“Mine too,” the earl said, sounding surprised. “In fact I was named after her.”

“Is your name Marie-Antoine, then?”

“Certainly not,” Storrington replied. “I am English, and Englishmen are not named Mary. My father would have had a palpitation at the very notion. My Christian name is Anthony.”

“The house here is very like
la maison de la reine
at the queen's hamlet, yet somewhat smaller, I believe.”

The earl looked at her curiously. “Did you ever visit it? The original I mean, at Versailles.”

“I grew up hearing about it from my mother. It was she who told me the queen enjoyed visiting the farm and using its produce at her table, but she never did the work herself. I went there just once, as a child, when it was turned into a restaurant after the Revolution. It was rather sad, I think.”

“Was your mother in service to the queen? Is that how she came to visit the hamlet? I understand that only the privileged few were invited there.”

“My mother was with another lady who was visiting the queen,” Jacobin replied, regretting she'd said so much. It was a joy to speak of France, to recall happier days. And it didn't hurt that a very attractive man was listening to her with rapt concentration and regarding her with a fascinated gaze. Her attention-starved soul blossomed in the sun of Lord Storrington's interest. She
fought an urge to confide in him, to share her troubles with a sympathetic ear.

Sympathetic! There must be windmills in her head to forget, even for a minute, his own role in her plight. It was vital she not give away her identity and reveal her connection to Candover. She shouldn't have let herself be carried away and speak so much of her mother.

“How do you come to have the Queen of France's village in this English park?” she asked.

A flicker of sadness passed over Storrington's face. For a moment he appeared vulnerable and very human.

“My mother loved France.” His voice was smooth, and Jacobin wondered if she'd imagined his distress. “As I said before, she admired the queen. The mill was already here and my father built the Queen's House to please her. To try and make her happy.”

“And did it?” she inquired, not daring to ask why the late Lady Storrington should have been unhappy.

“No. She died not very long afterward.” His voice was matter-of-fact, but the expression on his face was forlorn.

“You miss your mother, don't you? Tell me about her,” she said gently.

Once again his willingness to confide in her surprised Anthony. She was still dressed in the drabbest of gray gowns, but she had a face that couldn't look gray under any circumstances and possessed an exotic cast that spoke of her French blood: wide, brandy-brown eyes with thick dark lashes; flawless skin two shades darker than the typical English complexion; a perfectly straight and symmet
rical nose; plump, curving lips; the small but determined chin decorated with that intriguing cleft. Chestnut brown curls that fluttered in the wind topped it all off.

He was attracted to her, of course, which was why he had, against his better judgment, pursued her through the park. And there was something more. Something about his newest employee elicited his trust.

“My mother was the most delightful person in the world. When I was very young she'd fetch me from the nursery and we'd go on picnics. She took me bathing in the lake here and played hide-and-seek. She'd tell me stories, and she would laugh and laugh.” He felt his heart squeeze tight with mingled pain and pleasure at the recollection of those lost halcyon days.

“What happened?” she whispered, standing close to him. Her eyes were huge and glowed with sympathy. He could drown in their chocolate depths.

“I don't know,” he said bleakly. “My father took her to France after my sister was born, and when they returned she was different. I don't think she ever smiled again.” He turned away from her and stared unseeing at the hamlet. He could feel the weight of incipient tears behind his eyes. Instinctively his shoulders hunched and his head dropped to hide his grief.

Damn it, where had this sudden weakness come from? He was never sentimental. He faced life as he found it and did what needed to be done.

“It was a long time ago,” he said, stiffening his spine. He wanted to reject Jane Castle's compassion. He didn't need it. “There's no point dwelling on it.”

Forcing his emotions into the deep recesses of his mind where they belonged, he made his voice as un-yielding as his stance. “I was going to summon you later to discuss a house party I am planning. We might as well do that now. I want my guests to enjoy the best confections you can produce.”

She gave him a look that, he feared, meant she wasn't fooled by his change of subject and knew exactly how affected he had been. But she didn't say anything. How could she? She was only a servant, after all.

“Certainly, my lord,” she answered agreeably. “What dishes would you like me to make?” The wicked glint in her eye told him she wasn't letting him off entirely. She was well aware he had no idea how to answer that particular question.

He waved his hand dismissively. “I leave that for you to decide, Miss Castle. Earn your princely salary and impress my guests.”

She tilted her head proudly. “I assure you, my lord, I can impress anyone.”

He had the urge to ruffle her composure, to repay her for the turmoil in his heart caused by speaking of his mother.

“One of the guests will be a particular connoisseur of your art, a lover of confectionary on a par with the Prince Regent,” he said. “Lord Candover.”

He watched closely for her reaction and wasn't disappointed. She blanched.

“A
nthony,” croaked the dying man, reaching out feebly to his son.

Anthony stood at his father's bed and took the offered hand. The long fingers, so like his own in shape and size, were cool and paper-dry. They felt desperately frail in contrast to the warmth and vigor of his own.

His father was dying. The physician said it wouldn't be much longer now. The old earl had sent the doctor, nurse, and his younger offspring out of the room, leaving him alone with his heir. The wasting disease that had sapped his vitality over the past months left him without strength, but Anthony sensed rather than felt his father tug him closer. He leaned over the bed so that the old man could look him full in the face. The dull blue eyes stared at him intensely.

“Catherine,” the earl murmured. Anthony wondered if he had been mistaken for his mother. He'd always been the image of her, a masculine version of the beauty who had dazzled London society in her heyday. He waited, saying nothing.

“Catherine,” his father repeated. “I loved her.”

Anthony knew that. His father had never recovered from her death. Ever an undemonstrative man, he had completely withdrawn into himself after the loss of his wife.

“I loved her,” the earl continued, “but she was never the same after France.”

Anguish pierced his father's customary dry tones, and Anthony wanted to offer comfort.

“I loved Mama too, Father,” he said. “She was sad, but she still loved us.”

“No!” exclaimed the earl. “She never loved me again. He took her away from me and then he stole her. And she died.”

Anthony tried to make sense of what his father was saying. His mother had drowned. It had been an accident.

“What are you saying, Father? Mama never had another man. She was faithful to you.” Anthony couldn't bear to think otherwise.

The earl continued. “I must tell you.” The strain of speech was evident but some great need gave him the force to tell his tale. “She fell in love with him in France, and things were never the same. Then, that night, she left me to join him. There was a storm. She died.”

Anthony's throat clenched. Even had he found the words he couldn't have uttered them. The knowledge of his mother's infidelity shook him to the core. He felt his father's pain, but even more he felt his own. She'd left
him
. He wanted to roar out his hurt. He'd like to kill the man who'd ruined his life.

“Who?” The single word was all he could articulate.

He was scarcely aware now of his father clutching his hand. His own rage consumed him.

“Who!” he cried, the need to know the truth releasing his vocal cords from bondage.

“The letter…” His father's voice was now only a whisper. Anthony had to lower his ear to the dying man's lips to hear the words. “The letter came…and she left.”

“Whose letter?” Anthony was wild for the truth. “Who was it, Father? The name! Give me the name.”

“The letter came from Candover…”

The earl rose from his supine position and thrust back the covers. He left the bed and stood up, all sign of weakness gone. He stood as tall and straight as he'd ever been and shook his fist in the air above his head.

“Avenge me,” he cried. His voice was young and vigorous. “My son, you must avenge me.”

 

Anthony awoke in a sweat, as he always did when he had the dream. He couldn't count how many times it had come to him since his father's death. It was always the same. And it was always exactly like his father's last minutes. Until the end.

“The letter came from Candover…” had been his father's last words. His life slipped away as spoke them.

Only in the dream did he call for revenge. Yet sometimes Anthony found it hard to credit that his father had not risen from his sickbed like that. It always seemed so vivid, so true. And his demand seemed so just.

 

Jacobin couldn't get her mind off her employer.

He'd looked so bleak, dismissing his mother's death as something that happened a long time ago, when it was obvious that her loss scarred his soul to this day. She'd wanted to hold his head to her breast and stroke the improbably windswept locks; to soothe the faint lines at the juncture of the brow, lines of care and worry; and then she wanted to make him laugh and laugh as he recalled his mother doing. To make him laugh until the marks of trouble were erased and the corners of his eyes and mouth crinkled with enjoyment.

These were foolish thoughts. There couldn't ever be anything between her and the Earl of Storrington, and she shouldn't want there to be. She mustn't forget that he was her enemy, a man who'd won her at a game of cards. For all she knew, if he discovered her identity he might believe he held some kind of
droit de seigneur
over her. She didn't know how Candover had settled his bet with Storrington after her disappearance, or what either man would do if they realized who and where she was.

And Candover was expected at Storrington Hall. She'd have to keep out of his way. If he found her here it would be much too convenient for him to hand her over to the earl on the proverbial silver platter.

She'd like to think Storrington would refuse the offering, but a core of common sense told her not to rely on her instinct. Or on her wishes rather. She was in danger of seeing Storrington as a knight in shining armor based on nothing but a superficial attraction to his appearance and a hint of vulnerability in his personality. She didn't really know much about him, and what she did know wasn't encouraging: he was a gambler; he was a friend of her far-from-trustworthy uncle; and he'd hired her as a cook for an unknown reason that had nothing to do with a taste for pastry.

If she were wise she'd give Storrington a wide berth. She had no reason to trust him.

Her sleep in the small bedroom in the upper reaches of the great house was disturbed. She awoke in pitch darkness and knew there was no chance of regaining unconsciousness. She might as well begin to earn her living while the kitchen was free of the antagonistic presence of Mrs. Simpson. Since she'd be alone, she could dress for comfort. She reached for the breeches and jacket that had been her uniform at the Brighton Pavilion.

 

The delicate business of kneading chilled butter into the yeast-flour mixture soothed Jacobin's jangled nerves. With the heel of her hand she repeatedly smeared the sticky mixture over the cool marble slab until the dough was fluffy and could be set aside in a basin for its first rising in a warmer part of the kitchen. She'd better not catch Mrs. Simpson touching it.

Philosophically, she'd decided to set aside the dangers and ambiguities of her situation and try to make herself indispensable in her new position. Maybe Storrington had no personal need for a first-rate pastry cook, but she vowed she'd change his mind. She guessed the earl wasn't overly fond of sweet things. But she could show him that breakfast offered greater refinements than toasted English bread. Her lip curled scornfully. Wait till he'd tried her brioche.

Because
pâte à brioche
had to rise three times over several hours, she wouldn't be able to serve it to her employer that morning, if he kept anything resembling country hours. Of course he might be like her uncle, who never rose before noon. But, despite his undoubted elegance, there was an energy about Storrington that made her doubt he was a slug-a-bed.

She had no intention of waiting another day to impress him. She stoked up the fire in the thankfully modern kitchen range and set water to boil.

 

A pool of light illuminated the work surface and the new cook's hands. She cracked an egg into the pot on the table and did something vigorous with a wooden spoon for perhaps half a minute. Then she picked up another egg and repeated the motion. Anthony admired the fluid way she handled the eggs with her left hand alone, while beating briskly with her right. He had no idea what she was doing, but he suspected it was more difficult than it looked. There was something reassuringly competent about Jane Castle.

He didn't know what, in his wakeful state, had brought him to the kitchen in the wee hours of the morning. He doubted he'd set foot in the place since he was a hungry boy scrounging a forbidden bite to stave off the pangs of hunger between meals. His usual territory during sleepless nights was the main floor of the mansion, the expansive, elegantly furnished rooms inhabited by generations of Storrs. There was no particular reason that tonight's wanderings had brought him to the utilitarian depths of the house. A faint light had drawn him to the kitchen, a room that should be dark and empty. Instead he found the object of far too many of his thoughts.

It was interesting that she had recognized his mother's French folly. It seemed unusual, to say the least, that a pastry cook would be so familiar with the Queen of France's rustic retreat. A mystery surrounded Jane Castle, formerly known as Jacob Léon, that went beyond her recent change of sex. Given the circumstances of that change she was quite possibly involved in a murder, but Anthony was hard put to believe it. There was something so warm about her, so alive. He didn't want to see her as an agent of death. Her eyes reflected a spirit that made him want to laugh, to set aside duty, to enjoy life in a way that had eluded him for years—for almost as long as he could remember.

Thrusting his hands into the pockets of his velvet dressing robe, he leaned against the doorjamb and watched Jane Castle, wondering why she was at work at this unearthly hour.

She leaned over to peer into the pot, and Anthony lost interest in that question because he'd found the answer to another. He'd wondered about the shape and size of her bosom, and now he knew. The upper part of her body was outlined by the wall lamp beside the table. Small, sweet curves were delineated through the muslin shift that was all she wore on top.

Whatever whim had brought him here, it was an excellent one.

She hadn't noticed him. His fascinated eyes gazed at the uptilted breasts, each crowned by a delicately pointed nipple, firm and peaked as though aroused.

Anthony shied away from that particular thought; it too nearly matched his own state. Unmistakably, things were stirring down below. He pulled on the sash of his robe to make sure it was secure. On second thought, maybe this wasn't such a good idea.

She spun around to face him, her mouth opening in a moue of surprise. The wooden spoon clacked onto the marble table as her hand covered her lips, eyes widened with shock. She stood motionless and silent for a long delicious moment during which dusky areolas were visible through the white shift. Then, with a gasp, she crossed her arms protectively across her chest.

“My lord, I didn't expect to see you here—now. I didn't think to see anyone at this hour.” She glanced over to a chair a few yards away where her cook's jacket had been tossed. It was warm in the kitchen, Anthony realized, aside from any heat being generated for other reasons. He held up a restraining hand.

“Don't change your attire on my account, Miss Castle. If you are comfortable as you are, please remain so.”

She gave him a suspicious look, as well she might, given that his eyes kept wandering between her upper torso and the alluring curve of hips and thighs clad in snug breeches. With an effort he fixed them on her face. The lamplight glowed through her chestnut hair, casting a fiery aura around her head and making her look like a slightly grumpy angel. To distract her from the idea of donning additional clothing, he looked around the dimly lit room with an intense—and entirely feigned—interest.

“It's been years since I've been in here,” he remarked. “I couldn't sleep and noticed the light. Are these the normal hours of a pastry cook?”

His casual speech seemed to dispel her embarrassment. She shrugged and turned back to her work, taking up the dropped spoon again.

“I don't usually start this early, but since your staff seemed quite unprepared for my arrival, there isn't a suitable place for me to work. I thought I'd cook a few things before anyone was stirring.” She gave him an impudent look. “You've never had a
pâtisserie
specialist before, have you?”

It was time to get the upper hand here, Anthony decided. He wasn't going to suffer another of her impertinent interrogations into his tastes.

“As it happens, no,” he said coolly. “You are a new addition to the household because I am making some
changes in my way of life.” He had no intention of making any further explanation to this servant. Her job was to follow orders and collect her exorbitant salary.

The woman was irrepressible.

“Excellent,” she said, a wide smile lighting up her whole face. “You are to be married?”

Well, that was as good an excuse as any. “It is time that I should. I have responsibilities to my position.”

“May I be so bold as to wish you and
milady
every joy?”

“Well I'm not actually betrothed…yet.”

She looked as though this was the most delightful piece of news and she'd like nothing better than to sit down for a friendly chat about his nuptials. He found it exceedingly irritating. The spoon clattered to the table again, and she spun around and flitted over to the range.

“Sit down,” she said.

Irrepressible and bossy, by God.

“I'll make you some tea, then in a little while you can have a first taste of my cooking.”

This definitely wasn't a good idea, he thought. He should be putting her in her place. A friendly chat in the middle of the night, alone, with a much too attractive female servant was completely inappropriate. He never encouraged undue familiarity from his staff. But instead of taking a haughty leave, he found himself sitting down at the big pine kitchen table while she fussed around with a teapot and lit another lamp to place beside him. The tea, in a thick earthenware cup,
was strong and tasty, and he felt an unwonted sense of well-being.