A Taste for Scandal (14 page)

Forcing her attention away from the mesmerizing motion, she nodded briskly. “Well done. Now, Lady Beatrice, you must use surer strokes.”

“Like this?” she asked, going faster but still only just grazing the chocolate with the grater.

Jane shook her head. “The motion is right, but you need more pressure. Pretend you are painting a broad, bold landscape, my lady, and not a delicate portrait.”

Lady Beatrice paused, a grin lighting her whole face. “You remembered!”

Her clear pleasure made it impossible not to smile back. “Of course. ’Tis an enviable talent, to be sure.”

“What a kind thing to say. All right, how is this?” Lady Beatrice tucked back into her task, her small hands much surer and more determined. Jane nodded in approval. Before meeting the girl, Jane would have never imagined a debutante like her willfully participating in such a thing. But here she was, dirtying her fingers and carefully following instructions without the least bit of reserve. And really, the same could be said for the earl. Even though she looked forward to the moment that he admitted he was wrong to mock her choice of recipe, she still had to admire how unreservedly he tackled the task.

The shushing of chocolate over metal continued for minutes, both pupils gradually slowing at the pace. Lady Beatrice’s cheeks grew pinker by the moment while a few small beads of sweat popped out on Raleigh’s forehead.

Jane had to work to keep the smile from her lips. Where were his glib comments now? She knew all too well what hard work grating chocolate could be. She may look small, but after years of whisking, grating, kneading, and chopping, she was stronger than most men her size.

Raleigh was the first to finish. “Voilà!” he announced, shaking out his arms. “And here I thought you said baking was hard work.”

“Very nice, Lord Raleigh. As soon as Lady Beatrice is finished, we’ll move on to the next step.”

“Which is?”

She picked up the whisk and waved it. “Beating the egg whites.”

Richard’s grin fell. Bloody hell. He was only just able to lift his arm now—how on earth was he supposed to beat an egg? He wasn’t exactly sure what such a thing involved, but if it was anything like beating a rug, he was going to be worthless at Gentleman Jackson’s tomorrow.

And judging by the triumphant grin on Jane’s pretty lips, she knew it. She thought she had bested him, as if he weren’t able to keep up with the things she did on a daily basis. She was looking for a reason to dismiss him, to believe him incapable, but he wasn’t going to give it to her. There were few more effective ways to impress a woman than proving oneself capable. Be it on the dance floor, a game of cards, or driving a phaeton, women loved a man who could excel at something. On principle, he reached out for his sister’s remaining chocolate. “Here, Bea, let me help you with that.”

She gratefully forfeited the task and flopped her arms down on the table. “By all means, help yourself. How exhausting your work must be, Miss Bunting. I admire your ability to do such things day in and day out.”

Jane’s businesslike facade slipped as pleasure at the compliment brightened her expression. “Why thank you, Lady Beatrice. Most people don’t give a moment’s thought to what it takes to prepare the items we offer.”

Now, why hadn’t he thought to say such a thing? Beatrice had done him one better and didn’t even know it, the cheeky girl. Instinctively knowing when and how best to compliment a woman was generally his forte. Perhaps his damn sore arm had leached all the charm from his brain. “I have to agr—Christ!”

Richard broke off midsentence as his finger erupted in pain. He promptly dropped the chocolate and grater, which tipped the bowl of shavings over as they fell. All the chocolate he had painstakingly grated scattered across the table and down onto the floor.

“Oh, my goodness, are you all right?” Jane sprang around the table, pulling a towel from her apron as Beatrice squeaked and jumped back.

Richard sucked the end of his middle finger, which burned like the devil. The taste of metallic blood and bitter chocolate nearly gagged him, and he yanked the injured fingertip right back out again, only just managing not to spit on the floor. Instantly Jane was by his side, drawing his hand into her own and gently inspecting the wound. He sucked in a breath at her touch as all thoughts of the injury fled. Who would have thought her hands would be so soft? Her touch was as light as goose down, but he felt it through his entire body. What would she think if he clasped her fingers in his and kissed each one in turn?

She looked up, her eyes holding an odd mix of sympathy and amusement. “Honestly, you scared me half to death. ’Tis only a scratch, my lord, see?” She held up his hand for him to inspect, and indeed it was barely even bleeding now. “Hardly more than a paper cut.”

Beatrice—he’d almost forgotten she was there—blew out a breath, her hand to her heart. “Oh, thank heavens. By the sound of things, one would think you cut it clean off.”

Well, then, this was embarrassing. But in his defense, Jane’s cousin’s fist hurt less than this tiny cut. And he was glad for it—having Jane’s hands on his was well worth the pain. He smiled, letting his fingers drift across hers. “I defy you to find a man who doesn’t think a paper cut is a fate worse than death.”

Jane rolled her eyes and released his hand, stepping away from him. Damn—he could get used to the feel of her skin against his. Perhaps he should injure himself more often.

“Well, since I am fairly certain you’ll live, shall we continue?” She was back to business, her concern and gentle ministrations of moments ago already a distant memory. He nodded, but for a moment Jane merely stared at him. What was this? Had the touch affected her more than originally suspected?

“Lord Raleigh?” she said at last.

“Yes?” he drawled, holding her gaze.

“The chocolate?”

The what? He looked down to the scattered shavings. He’d forgotten all about them. No servants waited in the wings to clean up the mess, after all. Damned inconvenient, that. He collected as many of the tiny pieces as he could and dumped them back in the bowl. The dusting of chocolate coating the floor at his feet would have to be a loss.

“Thank you, my lord. Now, this recipe only requires the egg white. So we need to crack it open and separate the yolk from the white before whisking.”

Richard watched as she demonstrated, her deft fingers cracking the egg in half, then bouncing the two pieces back and forth, allowing the white to drop to the bowl below as the yolk remained in the shell. “I can do it for you if you like, or you can give it a try.”

“Um,” Beatrice said, her eyes wide as she stared at the slimy goo dripping from the eggshell. “I think perhaps I’ll let you do this part. If you don’t mind, of course.”

Instead of showing any dismay or disappointment, Jane chuckled and obliged, quickly completing the task. She handed the copper bowl containing the egg white back to Bea and reached for his.

After the fingertip incident, he needed to redeem himself. He couldn’t very well have her coddling him, a nursemaid cutting her charge’s food. He lifted a hand. “No, thanks, I’ll give it a try.”

Her raven brows lifted and she paused, her hand outstretched. “Are you certain? Do you think your fingertip is up to the task?”

Teasing, now, was she? Richard allowed a slow grin to lift his lips. “I think I can handle it.”

Dipping her head, she waved her hand for him to continue. Even with her pressing her lips together, he could tell she was smiling. He lifted the small egg and tapped it on the edge of the bowl. With great care, he pressed his thumb into the side and pulled the two halves apart. The slimy part slipped out quickly, pulling a few shards of shell with it. He only just managed to prevent the yolk from going in after it, but in the process he somehow ruptured the membrane and it started to drop into the bowl. He jerked it away, and the yolk promptly plopped on the table just outside of the bowl.

At his elbow, Beatrice giggled. “That didn’t quite go like Miss Bunting’s.”

“Of course it did,” he said, winking at his sister. “It’s separated, is it not?”

Jane rubbed her hand over her mouth. Was it amusement or annoyance turning her eyes to green? “That it is. Though, if you value your teeth, you may wish to rescue the shell from the bowl.”

“Details, details.” They were slippery little bastards, but he soon fished them all out. She was quite the taskmaster, his little baker.

“Next is the beating of the egg white. It is clear and liquid now, but when you are finished, it should look as fluffy and stiff as a good whipped cream.” Richard watched as she tucked the copper bowl into the crook of her left arm and began to whisk. Her hand moved so fast, the movement was almost a blur. If he weren’t so sober, he would doubt his own vision.

“And that is really all there is to it,” she said, handing the partially whisked egg white over to Beatrice.

“I see how things are—giving the advantage to your fellow female.”

“The advantage, my lord? Are we in the midst of a competition?”

“Everything in life is a competition, Miss Bunting—including the whisking of eggs and the grating of chocolate.”

“Then I suppose I evened the odds, considering that your sister is roughly half your weight and probably a decade your junior.”

That made him laugh. “So I’m an overweight old man, then?” he joked, his tone light.

“
Definitely
not,” she said, the emphasis unmistakable as her gaze flitted down his body before jerking back up.

Satisfaction swamped him where he stood. Richard had played the game of attraction too long and too well not to know appreciation in a lady’s eyes when he saw it. “Good to know,” he murmured, allowing just enough warmth in his eyes to make her cheeks pinken the slightest bit. This was the playing field he knew—the kitchen may be her domain, but a woman’s heart was his. He picked up his bowl and whisk with renewed vigor. “All right, Beatrice, you may have your head start. Now, let us see if you can keep it.”

Getting into the spirit of the challenge, his sister snapped up her bowl, and together they began to whisk. The uneven scrape of metal on metal gave testament to the fact he had no idea what he was doing, but, by Jove, he would do it with gusto.

The egg went from clear to frothy fairly quickly, but seemed to linger in that state no matter how fast he moved. In less than two minutes, his arm began to ache from the unfamiliar motion, and Bea had already switched hands twice. Finally, she gave up, plunking the bowl down on the table with a thud.

“I can’t possibly go on,” she panted, dropping onto one of the kitchen stools. The sunny curls framing her face were looking decidedly droopy. “Miss Bunting, I do believe you are my hero. I honestly don’t know how you do it.”

“Nothing more than practice, my lady.” Kindness warmed Jane’s tone as she reached across the table for the abandoned bowl. “Only half my work takes any amount of skill. The rest is nothing more than endurance.”

Richard paused to brush his forearm over his brow. Truer words, and all that. His shoulder burned like the fires of Hades. He boxed regularly—he should at least be able to outlast his baby sister.

“Giving up as well, Lord Raleigh?”

Did she know how husky her voice could get when she teased him? He did his best to look as though his arm were not about to fall off. “Of course not.”

She grinned, effortlessly swishing the whisk all the while. It was then that he noticed the effect the motion had on her bosom. The pain in his shoulder receded as his mind focused on her bouncing breasts. Grated finger, burning shoulder, and eggy hands aside, these lessons may very well be the best idea he’d had in years. She was glorious to watch.

He swallowed, dragging his eyes away from her dancing assets. When given the choice between pride—proving he could finish the task—and enjoying the view, a true gentleman would always choose pride.

Thank goodness he was only
mostly
a gentleman.

“On second thought,” he said, setting down the bowl and offering her his most innocent smile. “Perhaps I will.”

Chapter Twelve

“How did it go?” Emerson asked as Jane let herself into the apartment. He and Weston were seated at the table, maps and charts piled between them.

She pursed her lips, considering the past few hours. “Not near as badly as originally feared.” Once she had gotten over the shock of having a half-dressed earl in her kitchen, she had ultimately been impressed by the siblings’ willingness to work. “The puffs turned out edible, even if they weren’t the most attractive things on earth.”

She chuckled just thinking of the earl’s pride as he held up the lopsided, pockmarked puff as if it were the crown jewels. It had tasted too sweet by half, but after having discovered so much chocolate littering the floor where Raleigh had stood, it was little wonder.

“So the earl didn’t balk at getting his hands dirty?” Weston asked dubiously, his finger holding his place on the chart in front of him. “I’d have thought they would have given up the farce the moment the real work began.”

“To be honest, so did I. They surprised me, doing almost anything I asked of them.”

“Almost?”

“Lady Beatrice wasn’t so sure about separating the egg yolks from the whites. But other than that, they at least tried everything. The earl wasn’t even discouraged when he grated his finger.”

Emerson chuckled. “Almost as bad as a damned sliver, pardon my language. I’d just as soon fall overboard in shark infested waters, if given the choice.”

“Based on his reaction, I’d say he would as well.” Her heart had dropped clear to the floor when he’d cried out. She hadn’t even thought before pulling his hands into her own. Apparently neither had he, willingly allowing her to inspect the cut. His hands were stronger, more robust than she would have expected of a dandy. She had best keep her hands to herself from now on—the temptation to savor his touch had been powerful, indeed.

“So they’ll be back next week after all?”

Her brother’s hopeful expression gave her pause. “Yes. Why?”

“Well, since you’ll be busy, I thought Emerson and I could go to the wharf so he could teach me proper. Books and pictures are no match for seeing the ships in person.”