A Taste for Scandal (34 page)

Settling into one of the chairs facing the deck, Richard pursed his lips. “Not sure. I think the first one, but you may disagree. And by the way—
may
have saved your life?”

Benedict grinned. “So let’s hear it. But,” he said, holding up a hand, “keep in mind that once called, the debt can never be invoked again.”

Richard nodded; it would be worth it. “First of all, I want to know when you were planning on telling me that Jane is your new pastry chef.”

Aha—he’d caught Benedict off guard. “And I’m the one who was the bloody spy. I’m impressed, I admit. How on earth did you discover she was here?”

“You underestimate the divinity of her baking. One taste of her chocolate biscuit the other day, and I knew she was here. And you didn’t answer the question.”

“If you would have asked, or if I had heard that you were looking for her, I would have told you. But quite honestly, I’m trying to stay out of it. Clearly,” he said, leaning back in his chair and tilting his head, “that’s about to change.”

“All I want is the opportunity to be alone with her.”

“No.”

“Hear me out,” Richard said, knowing what his friend must be thinking. “I’m not going to ravish the woman, for God’s sake. But I do want to see her again, and she won’t agree to it if it means going behind your back.”

“Smart girl. And the answer is still no.”

“Oh, come off it, Benedict. You’re not her bloody gatekeeper. And it doesn’t even begin to compare with how much you truly owe me. Now get off your damned high horse and be reasonable.”

Benedict seemed unperturbed by Richard’s outburst. “It would appear I
am
her gatekeeper. Why else would you be here? And you are forgetting, my friend, the lovely conversation we had about the lady in question at Gentleman Jackson’s last month. I know exactly what you have in mind for Miss Bunting, and I’m not going to offer her up like some bonbon on a platter merely because I owe you a debt.”

“It’s not like that,” Richard ground out, dragging a hand through his hair. He had to make Benedict see his point. He couldn’t go to Evie—he had promised not to say a word to his siblings. “She’d still have her shop if it weren’t for me. I never had the opportunity to make amends—to apologize in earnest to her. I want to make things right between us.”

He leaned forward in his chair, looking Benedict straight in the eye. “You already know that in a few short weeks, I will choose a wife. It wouldn’t be fair for her to find out about it through servant gossip. Let me explain to her what’s going on. Let me have the chance to properly settle things between us.”

“Servants will gossip, you know. Where and when do you foresee this meeting taking place?”

“After the servants have gone to bed. Thursday night, one hour, in the kitchen.”

Benedict raised a brow. “The kitchen?”

“Trust me.”

Crossing his arms over his chest, his friend eyed him as if sizing up an opponent in the boxing ring. At last, he gave a curt nod. “Very well. Make it eleven o’clock. And I will make sure Miss Bunting knows that her presence is at her discretion. When the clock strikes midnight, I’ll be dropping by for a late-night snack. If Miss Bunting is not in good spirits, unscathed, or
alone
, you’ll have to answer to me
and
your sister.”

Richard lifted an eyebrow. “Using the Missus for your dirty work?”

“She’s much more terrifying than I could ever be. And those are my terms—take them or leave them.”

Triumph bloomed warm within Richard’s chest. “It’s a deal.”

Chapter Thirty

Sitting on her bed only minutes before the appointed meeting with Richard, Jane stared at the folded piece of paper in her lap. It was the second to last letter from her mother, almost the last new words Mama would ever say to her. She fingered the small dollop of black wax, debating whether to pull it free.

She should have said no. When Mr. Hastings approached her with the plans for meeting with Richard, she should have politely refused and gone about her business. But there was simply no accounting for the heart’s wants. Richard may soon be choosing a bride, but he hadn’t yet.

And that was splitting hairs at its best.

A longing for her mother’s advice filled her so completely, her fingers itched to do the deed, to yank open the seal and set free the words hidden within. But still she hesitated. Richard was not for her. Even with whatever came tonight, she could no longer even pretend he was a suitor, or that Mama’s counsel applied to the two of them.

She rubbed her thumbs over the thick paper, then lifted it to her lips, placing a kiss to the seal before tucking it back in her cedar chest and closing the lid. Mama’s advice was for accepting a gentleman, not sending him away. This was something Jane had to do all on her own.

Taking a deep breath, she left the safety of her room and made her way to the kitchen, her footsteps quiet in her slippers. As she drew closer, the metallic sound of clanking pans gave her pause. Was one of the other servants in the kitchen? Surely not—Mr. Hastings had made it clear that he wanted use of the kitchen for himself that evening, and no one was to bother him. The pronouncement was met with much tittering and raising of eyebrows when he left, and Jane had blushed to the roots of her hair, thankful that no one seemed to pay her any mind. She couldn’t imagine that anyone would go against his explicit direction.

More cautiously, she moved forward.

Light spilled from the doorway of the kitchen into the corridor, almost as bright as daylight. What on earth? Who would have such little regard for the cost of such an extravagance? She picked up her skirts and hurried the last few steps. As she peered inside, her hand went to her mouth in wonder. Before her, dozens of candles burned from around the whole room, set in a multitude of candlesticks taken from all over the house. In the center of it all, Richard stood at the long worktable, wearing a pair of simple buff breeches below a loose white shirt with the collar open and the sleeves rolled to his elbows.

He looked up as if he knew she would be there, a grin already lighting his face. “Good evening, Miss Bunting.”

He had never looked more handsome—or as mischievous. She bit her lip and walked toward him, taking in the various bowls, pans, utensils, and ingredients spread on the table before him. “Good evening, Lord Raleigh. What is all this?”

He walked around the table, his movements smooth and deliberate, and held out his hand to her. Swallowing past the sudden rush of nerves that assaulted her at the thought of touching him again, she slid her fingers into his.

“This,” he said, leading her around to where a stool was positioned by the worktable, “is my way of showing you that your lessons were not in vain.” He gestured for her to sit, and when she did, he bent over her hand and pressed the lightest possible kiss on her knuckles. She shivered at the pleasure of the simple gesture. Letting her fingers slide slowly from his, he smiled.

“I don’t understand,” she said, unable to look away from those gorgeous silver eyes. He seemed his old self—that teasing, not-a-care-in-the-world man who so enchanted her before his father’s illness.

“You’ve done so much for me. I wanted to do something for you. What better way to demonstrate how well you’ve taught me than by baking for you?”

“Baking for
me
?” she squeaked, the very thought bringing a delighted smile to her lips. No one had baked for her since before Mama became sick. He couldn’t have possibly come up with a better way to disarm her. “You can’t be serious.”

“I assure you I am. A man does not tease about baked goods.”

“Yes, you do. You tease about everything.”

“True,” he agreed, “but tonight, I will tease only your sense of taste.”

“I see. So what will it be, chocolate puffs or tea biscuits?”

“Neither.” He held up a small piece of paper, already smudged with butter. “I asked my cook for a simple recipe, one that I could make with the techniques you taught me. She gave me the perfect one. You’ll be happy to know that a grater is not necessary, so hopefully major injury can be avoided.”

“So what is this exceedingly safe recipe?”

He grinned, tilting his head as his hands went to his hips. “Tell me, how do you feel about shortbread?”

“I love shortbread. If,” she said, catching his lighthearted spirit, “it is done correctly.”

“Is that a challenge?” He lifted a single golden brow.

“An invitation.”

He leaned forward, bracing his hands on either side of the table behind her so that she was boxed in. The familiar scent of his skin wrapped around her—the scent of the man she loved. His shirt gaped open, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of his muscled chest. Without even meaning to, she tilted her head back, bringing her lips closer to his. He lowered his face until only inches separated them and then, to her utter dismay, stopped. “I accept.”

With a wicked grin, he pulled away. “Watch and learn, my dear.”

And he said he wouldn’t tease. She sat back and watched him, taking full advantage of the opportunity to simply observe. It was sweet torture, a pleasure she couldn’t seem to deny herself. He looked like no other baker she had ever met, that was for sure. She loved watching his muscles as he worked, beating the sugar into the butter with rapid strokes. Without his waistcoat or apron on, she could see the hard planes of his chest flex with the effort.

About halfway through, it occurred to her that he was actually doing a good job. Of course, one would think that with four ingredients things couldn’t go astray anyway, but he’d proven that wrong in the very first lesson. It took her a while to pinpoint the feeling that built in her chest and spread like warm chocolate.

Pride.

She was proud of him, and the fact that he had actually listened to her, and was creating something with his own two hands. When they had tried to convince her to agree to the lessons, he had told her that he had never made anything before. She smiled, biting her lower lip. Well, now he had. She’d done that for him.

Just as he had opened her heart. He’d reminded her how to laugh, how to think of something other than the work that had spanned before her like a never ending quilt of responsibilities. So many things had happened since then—life-changing things—and yet, she couldn’t bring herself to regret falling for him. Even though she couldn’t have him, it was because of him that she knew how sweet love could taste, no matter how fleeting.

“All right,” he said, putting the bowl on the table and shaking out his arms. “Almost ready for the oven.”

“Do you need me to help?”

“Don’t even think about it.”

She put up her hands in surrender. He pointed at her in the exact way Mama used to, warning her not to intervene before dumping the dough on a baking sheet and pressing it out into one big disk. She pursed her lips, watching as he used his fingertips to flatten the dough.

“Is this to be the world’s largest biscuit?”

He chuckled, unoffended. “A broken biscuit tastes exactly the same as individual ones, and takes much less time.” He wiped his hands on a towel before lifting the pan and carrying it to the range.

“So impatient you are,” she teased.

“On the contrary,” he said, sliding the shortbread into the oven and closing the door. He turned to face her, his damp skin glistening in the candlelight. “I think I have been more patient than I’ve ever been in my life.”

He came to stand before her, his eyes roving her face in a way that somehow felt more intimate than such a simple act should. He lowered his hand to her, and she allowed him to pull her to her feet. His hands slid around her waist, gentle, undemanding. How did he always seem to know just the right thing to do? She felt protected . . . wanted. Something more than just desired.

“Do you have any idea what an incredible woman you are? I don’t think there is another woman in London who could have taught me what you have.”

Jane looked down, not sure what to say to such sweet praise. “Anyone could have taught you to bake.”

“Perhaps. But no one else would have made me want to. I learned because I wanted to be near you, to know more about the woman who could toss an earl out on his ear.”

She laughed, smacking his shoulder lightly. “I most certainly did not toss you out on your ear. I tried to have you
arrested
, but you left in an indignant huff before I had a chance to.”

“So true. It’s a shame really, that you didn’t succeed in having me hauled off to Newgate. Maybe then you’d still be in your shop.”

Focusing on the front of his smooth white shirt, she thought of how to respond. What he said was true, but to say she agreed—that she’d have been better off without having met him—would be lying. “But look at all the adventure we’ve had together since then.”

“Indeed. I’ve spent my whole life in the pursuit of pleasure, and I’ve never enjoyed myself more than when I was with you. Forget baking, if you could bottle
that
, you’d make a fortune.” He sighed and released her, dragging the stool over and sitting down. He was eye level with her now, and she stood just between his knees. The smell of warm, buttery sugar drifted to them, making her smile. Richard the baker.

“A fine compliment indeed. That will be another shilling please.” She held her hand out as if expecting to be paid. He grinned and captured her hand in his own, placing a warm kiss on her palm. She shivered a bit, savoring the feeling of his lips on such sensitive skin even as she took a step backward. The more space she put between them, the better.

Before she could get very far, he laced his fingers with hers, effectively ensnaring her. “That’s no Spanish coin, my dear. The truth is, I’ve never enjoyed being with anyone as much as I’ve enjoyed being with you.”

She didn’t know what to make of his words. They didn’t feel like his normal flattery. They felt simple and honest.

Just when the eternal flame of hope began to flicker back to life within her, his lingering smile faded, and he leveled his eyes on her. “You know, shortly after the attack, I made a promise to my father that I would take care of my mother and sisters. He didn’t even have to ask, of course. I would do anything for them.”