A Taste for Scandal (20 page)

He wasted no time seizing his fork and taking an enormous bite. Closing his eyes, he sighed, making little sounds of delight as he slowly chewed. She loved watching him, enjoyed seeing the overly dramatic expressions he made and listening to his supposed bliss.

At last he swallowed and opened his eyes, flashing his teeth in a wide grin. “That was indescribably delicious. Sinfully so, in fact. How did you know how well I liked lemon?”

She pressed her lips together and lifted her shoulder.

Richard shook his head at her reprovingly. “I can’t believe you are keeping secrets from me.” He got another forkful of pie and held it up. “I know how to loosen those lips. Have a bite of your creation, Miss Baker.”

She drew back in surprise as he held the fork up to her mouth. Surely he didn’t think she would take it.

“Come now, don’t be stubborn.” He opened his own mouth as he touched the tines to her lips, prompting her to open up. Suddenly his eyes narrowed, and he regarded her with suspicion. “Refusing to eat your own creation . . . a pie that was safely hidden away from customers . . . Gads, is this poison after all?”

She rolled her eyes and laughed. “I—”

But she didn’t get a word out before he shoved the bite of pie in her now open mouth. The wicked man! Eyes wide, she chewed quickly. How could he have been so forward? As soon as she could, she swallowed. “Really, I—”

Once again, he fed another huge forkful right into her mouth. Well, that was just too much. She crossed her arms and glared at him as she chewed, hardly even tasting it.

“Don’t chew so fast—you will never be able to properly enjoy the flavors that way.” He took another bite himself, exaggerating his delight and making her roll her eyes once more. It is not as though she could do much more with the mouthful of pie hindering speech.

He swallowed—it must have been a much smaller bite than the one he fed her—and grinned. “Close your eyes, concentrate on the beauty of your creation. The tart lemon and the creamy meringue. The buttery crust and the unexpected infusion of . . . well, I don’t know what that other flavor is, but it is delicious.”

She sighed heavily, gave him another sarcastic look, then closed her eyes. She slowed her chewing, deciding not to waste the opportunity, and to do exactly as he suggested. She had to admit, it did seem to make the flavors that much more distinct. Of course, it also served to intensify her sensitivity to
him
. The flavors playing over her tongue blended with the smell of his skin, sending an unexpected ribbon of pleasure through her body.

At last she finished and allowed her eyes to flutter open. She gasped, the words poised on the tip of her tongue promptly fleeing when she realized how close he was. He was leaning toward her, regarding her intently. No longer teasing, his eyes seemed to darken to the color of twilight as he watched her.

“Jane,” he breathed, swiveling on the stool to face her fully and reaching a hand out to tuck a fallen lock of her hair behind her ear. She stood frozen, unmoving, as his palm settled against her cheek. The heat, the contact, it was absolutely shocking . . . and indescribably delicious. It felt better than any pastry could ever taste, better than the sun on her face in the park. She dared not move an inch, afraid the moment would be lost, and he would leave her. He
should
leave her, somewhere in the back of her mind she knew he should, but right now, it was the last thing she wanted.

Slowly he slid his hand to cup her jaw in his palm. His touch was sure, not at all timid, and he stroked his thumb across her cheek. She felt the touch all the way to her toes and back, and she braced her hand on the counter for support.

She struggled to listen to the voice of reason warning her to step away, but it was muted and indistinct when compared to the purring delight Richard caused within her body.

“Would you do something for me?” he murmured, close enough now she could feel the faintest hint of the warmth of his breath on her skin.

Her heart thundered in her ears, drowning out whatever common sense tried to tell her. Though every word of her mother’s advice eluded her, her cousin’s words rang loud and clear in her mind.
Poor little Jane, always so serious
. She didn’t want to be serious just then. She wanted to enjoy herself, if only for a moment. She wanted to let go, and be lighthearted and irresponsible, even if it was for a single afternoon. His eyes were earnest, his touch insistent, and she wasn’t sure how long she could resist him. Swallowing nervously, she whispered, “What do you want?”

“I want to see you do what you do best. Not because you have to, or because I’m paying you, but because you want to. Sweet Jane, will you bake for me?”

Not kissing her right then and there was quite possibly the hardest thing Richard had ever done. Every fiber of his being yearned to pull her to him, to press his lips to hers and lose himself in the pleasure of it. And he had no doubt that she would let him—and that she would enjoy it.

But she wasn’t ready.

She might seem willing now, but he knew that if he gave in to the incredible temptation coursing through his blood, she was sure to have regrets the moment he left. It had taken weeks to get her to trust him this much—he couldn’t jeopardize that trust now. She’d become important to him. It wasn’t a risk he was willing to take, no matter how desperately he wished to do otherwise.

She blinked, confusion rising within the emerald depths of her eyes. “Bake for you?”

He knew what she was thinking—that he wanted her to work. But that couldn’t have been further from his motives. “Your treats tempt me like nothing ever has. I know there is so much of you in them; I can taste how much you care. But I’ve never been able to watch you at your craft, not really. I’ve bumbled through our lessons, so I know just how difficult doing it well can be.” He slipped a hand beneath hers, lifting it as he slid his thumb across her fingers. “I want to see these hands work their magic. To be witness to a true master at work.”

A slow, pleased smile grew on her incredibly kissable lips as a faint blush tinged her cheeks. She drew her hand away almost reluctantly. “You do have a way with words, my lord.”

He raised his shoulders lightly. “It’s a gift. If I am to be the world’s worst baker, I must have some sort of talent to make up for it. So will you do it?” He raised his eyebrows, silently imploring her to agree.

She nodded, the movement as shy as a debutante accepting her first dance invitation. Good—that meant his request affected her. “What is it you would like for me to bake? Those chocolate biscuits you keep asking about?”

He shook his head with slow deliberate movements. “I want for you to make whatever you wish. What is your very favorite?”

“Believe it or not, the pie is my new favorite. Would you like a fresh one to take home with you? I never really wanted to part with this one anyway,” she said, nodding to the half-eaten pie on the counter.

In only a few minutes, she had gathered everything she needed, and began the process of making the dough. Richard leaned against the counter a few feet away, watching as she made quick work of mixing butter into flour.

“The trick,” she said, looking up to meet his gaze without ever slowing her motions, “is to keep the butter as cold as possible. That is why I am mixing it on the marble slab, and using a fork instead of my hands.”

“Ah. And here I was thinking you just don’t like to get your hands dirty.”

Jane rolled her eyes, a smile tugging up the corners of her mouth. “If my hands aren’t sticky, doughy, chocolatey, or buttery, then my day hasn’t yet begun. Now then, if the butter becomes too warm, the crust won’t be as tender or flaky.”

He nodded absently, mesmerized by the rhythmic motion of her hands. Her movements were efficient yet graceful, so practiced as to be almost fluid.

“Who taught you to bake?”

Her hands stilled, and he looked up to meet her surprised gaze. “My mother first, my father later.” Her voice was quiet, pensive almost. She added a few spoonfuls of water to the dough and resumed her task.

Given her situation, he knew that her parents must be dead. He found that he was curious about them, the people who had raised a daughter who had so successfully fended for herself in the world. A daughter who could see past the mark of nobility and like—or dislike, as the case once was—him for who he was.

“How long have they been gone?”

With the dough clumping together in a sort of paste, she set down the fork and formed the dough into a ball, her fingers working fast and light. “My mother died a little over a year ago. She had been sick for a long time.”

Only a year? He hadn’t realized it had happened so recently. “I can’t imagine how that must have been for you. I’m sorry for your loss.” When she did nothing but nod, he picked up a lemon from the bowl in front of him, turning it in his hands. “Do you want me to do anything with this?”

“I need the juice from three lemons. If you want to cut them in half and squeeze them into that bowl, be my guest.”

He saluted and set about the task, careful to keep his fingers away from the blade. He was determined not to injure himself this time. “So, may I ask what happened to your father?”

She stiffened beside him, and he knew at once he had hit a sore subject. “He was killed. Struck by a careless fool racing through the streets of London after a night of drinking.”

He blew a breath between his teeth, shaking his head. The thought of losing one parent was unbearable, let alone both, but to lose one in a preventable accident? Unfathomable. “How tragic. I hope they at least caught the bast—er, the idiot.”

She gave a mirthless laugh. “They caught him, not that it did any good.”

“Did he escape?”

“Yes, though not in the way you’d imagine.” She paused, chewing her bottom lip as if deciding whether to go on. He waited, curious as hell but not wanting to push her. Finally, she looked up to him with solemn eyes. “Apparently, when you are the son of nobility, you’ve merely to claim innocence in order avoid being held accountable. No trial, no arrest, merely a single sentence. Of course, you may already have known that.”

Richard’s mouth dropped in shock. Good God, no wonder she had been so furious with him that first day. The nobility had little to answer for when it came to those outside of the
ton
, but killing an innocent man surely wasn’t one of them. He was desperately curious as to the identity of the bastard—there was no doubt that Richard must know him—but he feared asking would only make things worse. “What an incredible travesty of justice. Were there no witnesses?”

“There were. And then, somehow there weren’t. Interestingly, the two people who changed their claim seemed to have a sudden influx of funds.”

Bloody hell. So much of how she viewed the world suddenly made more sense. “I’m sorry, Jane.”

His words were quiet, and she nodded twice in acknowledgment. With sadness dulling her eyes, she looked almost fragile, and he decided to let her have a moment of peace. Picking up the closest lemon half, he squeezed it over a small bowl.

With a long sigh, Jane picked up the rolling pin and began working the dough in smooth, even strokes. As she fell into an easy rhythm, he was relieved to see the tenseness drain from her features.

Looking sideways at her, he said, “Tell me about your mother.”

“Mama?” Jane seemed taken aback by the question, as if no one had ever bothered to ask before. She moved the disk of dough around so she could work it from a different angle. “She had dark hair like me, and blue eyes like Weston. She had a lovely sense of humor, even when she was sick.” A soft, wistful smile came to her lips. “She loved lavender, both the color and the plant. Just like me.”

Richard smiled at this. Purple was the perfect color for her. “I can’t imagine that she would have looked any more beautiful in the color than you.”

She cut a glance at him, her green eyes reflecting pleasure even as she shook her head. “If compliments were shillings, Richard, I imagine you would be a very poor man by now.”

He grinned, dipping his head in agreement. “Probably, but that wouldn’t stop me from giving them when they are so very well deserved.”

She rolled her eyes and went back to her crust. “Now comes the tricky part. We must transfer the dough without tearing or stretching it. Hand me the pie tin, would you, please?”

He did as he was told, and she carefully dusted flour over the pastry before using a knife to pull up the edge. Working swiftly, she rolled the dough up onto the pin, lifted it over the pan, then somehow perfectly deposited it in place with one smooth motion.

“Bravo! That was brilliant.” He clapped as though it were the final act of an Italian opera at King’s Theatre.

She grinned hugely, nodding in graceful acceptance of his praise. “It’s all in the wrist.”

“Honestly, you are putting me to shame, here. I’m glad I didn’t see this before my ill-advised foray into grating. It’s enough to make a man feel rather ridiculous.” He put a hand to his heart, as if genuinely aggrieved.

“Do you know,” she said, tilting her head slightly to the side, “I think it was quite brave of you to try baking. I honestly never thought you would make it past the first few minutes.”

The praise felt really good, coming from her. He had exceeded her expectations. “Oh, ye of little faith. Don’t you know that when there are biscuits to be had, a man will endure just about anything? Even if those biscuits are but a pale copy of your own magnificent version.”

“That will be another shilling, please,” she said tartly.

“That wasn’t a compliment, it was a mere statement of fact. Just like saying the sky is blue, or your skin like cream.”

She blinked, clearly not expecting that one. Putting her hand to her hips, she tried to look stern, though she couldn’t know her rosy cheeks were ruining the effect. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, stop that. I’ll never fit through the door if you keep filling my head with such nonsense.”

“You just need to learn to accept a compliment. The standard reply, by the way, is ‘thank you.’”

She made a face before turning back to the counter. She chose an egg and cracked it over a bowl, bouncing the yolk back and forth to separate it as she had shown him in the first lesson. “I’ll say thank you when you are actually sincere about something.”