plate, at the pastry, golden and flaking at the edges, the thick creamy sauce coating the vegetables and meat. ‘It looks and smells delicious. I am not sure—’
‘You will taste it, madame.’
That was an order if ever she’d heard one. French chefs. She’d heard they were difficult. She had no wish to upset him. No wish to anger her brother. Not before they had a chance to talk. She picked up the cutlery.
Monsieur André leaned forward and shook out the napkin and spread it over her skirts. He moved so close, she could see the individual black lashes so thick and long around his dark eyes, and the way his hair grazed the pristine white collar showing above the black of his coat. Her breath seemed to lodge in her throat at the beauty of his angular face so close to hers and the warmth of him washing up against her skin. The scent of him, lemon and some darker spice, filled her nostrils. Her head swam a little.
Only when he stepped back could she take in a deep enough breath to dispel the dizziness. It must be hunger.
What else could it be?
A flush lit her face and neck. She lowered her gaze to her plate and cut into the pastry. She stabbed a fragment of partridge coated with sauce with her fork and put the whole in her mouth. The flavours were sensational. Creamy. Seasoned to perfection. Tender. She closed her eyes. Never had she tasted food this good. She finished the mouthful and glanced up at the chef who was watching her closely.
Once more she had the feeling he could read her thoughts. The man’s intensity was positively unnerving.
‘It is delicious. Thank you. I am quite sure His Grace will be pleased.’
She set down the knife and fork, expecting him to depart. Would he take the tray with him? She hoped not.
‘You need to eat more to be certain,’ he said.
She blinked. ‘I really don’t think—’
‘It might be too rich,’ he said. ‘You cannot tell from one mouthful. Did you not find the oyster soup too rich?’
‘Oh, no, it was delicious. Really.’
He raised a brow. ‘You ate so little, how could you tell?’
Goodness, the man was as autocratic as he looked and that bump on his nose reinforced the fierceness in his eyes. A warrior chef? ‘Very well.’ She picked up her knife and fork and ate two more mouthfuls and found herself wanting to shovel the rest into her mouth. The more she ate, the more she wanted. Before she knew it, the plate was empty and she felt full to the brim. She sighed.
When she looked up, the chef’s full sensual lips had the faintest curve. A smile?
Her stomach flipped over in the most decadent way.
What was wrong with her? Hadn’t she learned her lesson with regard to attractive men? They didn’t want her at all; they wanted her family connections. Mortifying it might be, but it was the truth.
She straightened her spine, picked up the napkin and flung it over the empty plate as if it would hide just how hungry she’d been. Too hungry to leave a morsel. No doubt they would be talking about that in the kitchen tomorrow while they dredged up the old scandal. ‘That was delicious, Monsieur André.’ She waved permission for him to take away the tray.
His posture stiffened. ‘Madame would like some dessert? There is a vanilla blancmange in the kitchen.’
It sounded heavenly. And he offered it in such velvety tones she could almost taste the vanilla on her tongue as his voice wrapped around her body. Charm. She fell for it so easily. She clenched her hands in her lap. ‘No. Thank you.’
A muscle in his axe blade of a jaw flickered as if he would argue. A mere twitch, but it broke the spell. What was she doing, letting this man order her about? Never again would she be any man’s doormat. Her spine stiffened in outrage, at him, at herself. ‘That will be all, Monsieur André.’
He recoiled, his eyes widening. ‘I simply saw that you did not eat and thought—’
‘What I eat, when I eat, is my concern alone, monsieur.’
‘I beg your pardon, madame,’ he said stiffly. There was anger in his tone, but something else gleamed in his dark gaze. Hurt? Gone too quickly to be sure, he was once more all arrogant male as he bowed. ‘I will relieve you of my unwelcome presence.’ He swept up the tray and strode from the room.
Blast. Now she’d upset Crispin’s chef. Montague pride, when she had nothing to be proud about. Hopefully the man would not vent to her brother, or take his anger out on the kitchen staff. She would probably have to apologise, even though the chef was in the wrong.
Chapter Three
The breakfast room overlooked the lawn at the side of the house. If one stood close to the window, one could just get a glimpse of the lake, with its decorative bridge and the island in the middle. Now it was frozen and dusted with a fresh fall of snow. She would take Jane outside later to look at it. Tell her about rowing over to the island in summer. Right now the child was tucking into coddled eggs and ham and had ceased to chatter for once.
‘Don’t eat too quickly, dearest, or you will be ill again,’ she cautioned.
She glanced at a sideboard weighed down with platters of food—eggs scrambled and coddled, bacon with curly brown edges and a hint of a sear, assorted breads and pastries and a juicy steak. The footman had delivered the food under Lumsden’s eagle eye from the moment she arrived.
‘Will His Grace be coming to breakfast soon?’ she asked Lumsden as she added cream to her coffee.
‘His Grace breaks his fast in his chambers, madam.’
She stared at the array of food on the sideboard and down at her plate of ham and poached egg and the bowl which had contained deliciously stewed plums and prunes. She and Jane had scarcely made a dint in the feast. At most she might manage a piece of toast and marmalade when she was finished with this.
‘Then who else is coming for breakfast?’
Jane looked up with interest.
‘No one else, madam,’ the butler said.
Claire frowned. Such extravagance. All this food would be wasted.
Lumsden must have guessed the direction of her thoughts because a fleeting smile crossed his face. ‘The food will end up in the servants’ hall, madam. The staff had a small piece first thing this morning, bread and cheese, before the fires were alight, but they will have breakfast proper when early-morning chores are done.’
Heat travelled up her cheeks. She had forgotten how it went in a house full of servants; she had never had more than a couple of live-out maids during all of her marriage and sometimes none at all. These past months she’d been her own cook and housemaid. How would she ever fit back into this world of privilege and idleness if she kept thinking like a poverty-stricken widow?
‘Will there be anything else, madam?’ the butler asked.
Claire looked at her plate and at the piles
