A Taste for Scandal (21 page)

Pushing away from the counter, Richard stepped directly behind her and leaned forward until his lips almost touched her ear. She went completely still, her hands arrested over the bowl. He breathed in the sugary sweet scent of her hair, imagining what it must look like unbound and flowing down her back. Softly, honestly, he said, “As God is my witness, you are the most remarkable woman I have ever known.”

He spoke the words simply, without any of the irony or humor that often colored his words. Jane shivered, her shoulders rising as she sucked in a breath. She turned her head slightly, seeking to meet his gaze over her shoulder. “You shouldn’t say such things,” she breathed, her voice quiet.

“It’s the simple truth,” he replied, looking to her lips. “I wanted you to know.” He reached up and brushed a spot of flour from her cheek with the tenderness of an archaeologist unearthing a delicate artifact. “There, good as new.”

Richard stepped away, trying to get his heart rate under control. He couldn’t remember ever being so affected by a woman before—and she wasn’t even trying to entice him. After a moment’s hesitation, Jane turned back to her work, her fingers moving more slowly than before. “I’m not so very remarkable. You never know what you are capable of until you are forced to find out.”

“Let’s hope that’s true,” he murmured, almost more to himself than her as he reached for another lemon.

She glanced at him for a moment before returning her attention to the eggs. “I doubt it is anything you will ever have to worry about.”

“On the contrary,” he said, all the insecurities of a lifetime rising to the surface. “You forget, I think, that some day I will be Marquis of Granville, responsible for not only an entire family, but the well-being of every tenant on every estate we own from here to South Yorkshire and back. And that doesn’t even touch on all of the people that will be affected by whatever laws and legislation are decided while I sit in the House of Lords.”

Her eyebrows raised, and she looked at him as if for the first time. “With all due respect, I find it hard to picture you as the imposing, stern lord of the manor.”

He sighed. “Yes, it sounds atrociously boring, does it not? I always thought when the time came, I would somehow magically just know all the right things to do. As I get older, I fear that may not be the case. My father has tried to teach me to follow in his footsteps, but a head for business I have not.”

“Well, when my father died, I was eighteen, a silly girl, really, with visions of dances and picnics and promenades with handsome gentlemen filling my head. But then I had to help my mother, and those visions soon dimmed.”

For a moment she seemed lost in thought, but then she smiled and lifted the bowl of egg yolks. “But just look at all the fun things I get to do now.”

He grinned in response, loving that she was finally at ease with him. For the next half hour, he watched as she whisked, measured, boiled, and mixed until at last, the unquestionably perfect pie was lowered into the oven.

“All right,” she said, closing the oven door and brushing off her hands. “One lemon pie, made before your very eyes. Was it everything you hoped it would be?”

A few wisps of hair had come free from her chignon and fell across her rosy cheeks. She looked sweet, and pure, and fresh as morning sunshine—more beautiful than any perfectly coiffed, exquisitely gowned lady of his set could ever hope to be. Was it everything he hoped it would be? No, it wasn’t. It was so much more and yet not nearly enough.

He reached out and captured her hand, bringing it to his lips. Without breaking eye contact, he pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the lemon-scented skin of her fingers. “It was perfect.”

Chapter Sixteen

Jane’s eyes pricked with tears at the sweet gesture, one that she had seen her father do so many times to her mother. Right here in the kitchen, they would pass by each other all day long, both busy with their work. Every now and then, Papa would snag Mama by the arm, dropping a kiss to her hand as if they were still sweethearts, and not surrounded by the mundane labors of day-to-day life.

Richard straightened, concern clouding his eyes. “What’s the matter? Did I do something to offend you?”

“No, no, nothing at all. I was just thinking of my parents. Papa used to kiss Mama just like that.” She blinked at the tears that dampened her eyes.

“And that’s a good thing?” he asked, his brow still knitted.

She nodded, laughing. “Yes, it’s a good memory.”

His beautiful eyes cleared and he smiled before releasing her hand. “Then I’m glad to have reminded you of it.”

There was nothing but sincerity in his voice. It mattered to her that he didn’t mind talking about them. No one ever seemed to mention them anymore, as if they were afraid of upsetting her. At least she hoped that was the reason—she hated the thought that her parents had already faded from people’s minds. It was one of the reasons she kept her mother’s china displayed. It was a tangible reminder that they had been here.

On a whim, she said, “Can I show you something?”

Richard raised an eyebrow. “Of course.”

“Keep an eye on the oven. I’ll be right back.”

She didn’t know why she suddenly wanted to share her project with him, but she did. By the time she had retrieved the tray and returned, he had settled into one of the stools at the worktable. “What have we got here?”

She set the loaded tray down on the table and gave it a little shake, rattling the pieces around. “The broken pieces of my mother’s china. I’ve been working on turning them into a mosaic.”

“It doesn’t look as though you’ve gotten too far,” he said with a grin. He lifted one of the pieces, inspecting the small flowers that decorated one corner of the shard. “Why does this look familiar?”

“Probably because the day we met, it was raining down onto the ground around you.”

His stricken gaze darted to hers. “You’re serious? This was your mother’s?” When she nodded, he cursed and gently set the piece back down. “No wonder you wanted me arrested. I’m more fortunate than I realized that you didn’t poison those biscuits.” He ran a hand through his hair in agitation. “Damn it, Jane, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s all right, Richard. I didn’t bring it down to make you feel rotten—I wanted to share my project with you. I’m turning it into a special serving tray in honor of them.”

He looked dubiously to the jumbled pile of broken china. “I’m glad to hear you’ll be able to give it new life.” He pawed through the porcelain, shaking his head. “Though, I still feel like a royal arse.”

She chuckled at the description. “Well, now is your chance to redeem yourself. I’ve been working on it for weeks, and can’t seem to come up with a pattern that I feel has any meaning to it. I want something that will make me think of them every time I look at it.”

“Why don’t you use your last initial?”

Jane blinked. Good heavens, it was perfect! Had he really just solved her weeks-long problem in under a minute? “That’s brilliant, actually. Where were you three weeks ago?”

He lifted his shoulders, a huge grin lighting his features. “Off being no good to you whatsoever?”

Feeling lighter than she had in weeks, Jane dumped the pieces onto the scarred surface of the table and began separating the plain white shards from the flowered ones. Richard joined in, and for the rest of the hour they worked on the layout, carefully selecting pieces for a crisp, elegant design.

By the time the pie was done, they nearly had the “B” completed. As Jane pulled the tin from the oven, she couldn’t help but wish they had more time together. She set the pie on a rack to cool, and turned to smile at Richard. “Thank you again for your suggestion. I don’t know why such a thing never occurred to me.”

“Yes, well, with half of everything I own being monogrammed with my initial, I can hardly take credit for the idea. Although, if it will buy me more pies, I will.” He stood and stretched before joining her to examine the fruits of their labors. “I can’t believe how perfect it looks. Anything I have a hand in making should at least be lopsided so I’ll recognize it as my own.”

She rolled her eyes at the quip. “You did great helping me with this one. You should be proud.”

“I am proud,” he said, leaning back against the counter. “I never made anything before I met you. And since you shared your special project with me, I thought I’d tell you something no one else knows.”

Were they sharing secrets now? Jane lifted her eyebrows, her interest thoroughly piqued. “I’m listening.”

She didn’t realize quite how close they were until he reached out a hand and trailed a finger down her arm. The whisper of his skin sliding over hers made her shiver, and he smiled. “You’ve inspired me, sweet Jane. I’m thinking about teaching others in the art of boxing.”

“Really?” She could hardly believe she had inspired anyone—and an earl, no less—to do something. “Richard, that’s incredible.”

“Do you think?”

“I do. I’ve seen you in action, after all. Anyone would be lucky to have you for their instructor.”

She’d pleased him with her comments. He held her gaze, grinning. “It can’t be forever, of course. I’ve the responsibilities to the title, after all. But in the near future, I think it could be an interesting endeavor.”

It was impossible to believe this was the same indignant lord who had stormed from her shop the first day they met—or that she was the same angry and overwhelmed girl. Grinning, she held up her fists as if ready to box. “Are you going to teach me, then?”

He raised his eyebrows and pushed away from the counter, inspecting her stance. “Looks like you have some potential there. Let me see.”

He adjusted her hands, moving her thumbs and curling her fingers just so. She held still, savoring the feel of his hands on hers. At last he nodded. “Yes, that’s perfect. Now try a jab, like this.” He pantomimed the motion, his arm punching the air. Jane followed his lead. “Good. Again.”

She bit her lip against the laughter that welled up within her and followed his instruction.

He nodded again, solemnly. “Very good. Now try a punch at me.”

“I will not,” she said, pressing her hands against her collarbone in protest. She was not about to actually hit the man.

“I said punch
at
me—I didn’t say to punch me.”

“How do I know I won’t hit you?”

“Oh, ye of little faith. Here, extend your arm all the way. I’ll make sure I’m the proper distance away.” He waited while she did as he told her to do. When her arm was extended fully, he stepped forward until her fist was pressed against the hard wall of his stomach. Butterflies suddenly roared to life within her at the feel of his body pressed against her hand. Her gaze flew up to meet his.

“Good. Now extend your other arm.” His voice was lower this time, quieter. Wordlessly, she complied. Both fists now rested against him, and she could feel the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. His eyes darkened perceptively as he watched her. Her own breathing had suddenly increased, as if she’d run up a flight of stairs.

For a moment, neither of them moved. Then, instead of stepping back like she expected, he leaned forward. She could have resisted. She could have kept her arms locked, or even dropped back a step. Instead, she relaxed her elbows, letting her fists slide toward his sides. Letting him close the distance between them.

There was no caution, no hesitancy within her this time. Instead, it felt absolutely right, as if they were drawn together by some unseen force.

He didn’t stop until his knees brushed her skirts, and mere inches separated their bodies. He slid a hand around her waist and tugged until she was pressed fully against him and she could feel the wild flutter of her own heart against his chest.

He leaned down, pausing just before their lips touched. Giving her a chance to change her mind? To say no? Nothing on earth could have made her want to stop him now. Her whole body ached to curl up in his arms and feel his solidness against her skin. She held her breath, waiting, dying, for the moment he touched his lips to hers.

And then he did.

Jane groaned with the pleasure of it, finally allowing herself to give in to him. She closed her eyes and, for a moment, the world seemed to go white, soft and hazy around the edges. Her entire being focused on the unbelievable, almost surreal sensation of Richard’s lips pressed against hers.

Her first kiss—she could hardly believe it. It was sweet, and exciting, and close to perfection. This was Richard—Lord Raleigh, for heaven’s sake!

His lips were soft against her mouth, gentle but insistent. And warm. Wonderfully, deliciously warm, like biscuits fresh from the oven. Slowly, one of his hands moved so his fingertips grazed the back of her neck, while the other slid more fully around her waist.

Her heart raced and she could feel the answering pounding of his as he drew her body tightly against him. The warmth of his chest against her breasts, even through the layers of fabric separating their skin, seemed utterly sinful but too pleasurable to pull away from.

She gasped when his tongue lightly licked along the seam of her lips, but he did not relent. Instead, when she relaxed her mouth, he deepened the kiss. She responded immediately, following his lead and losing herself in the moment. His kiss was perfect, everything she could have imagined and so much more.

He lowered his right hand to her waist, squeezing briefly before both hands slid down farther, tracing the curve of her bottom through the full skirts of her gown. When his hands cupped her and pressed her firmly against his flat belly, Jane opened her eyes in shock and broke the kiss.

It was just too much, too soon!

Panting, looking nearly dazed with passion, Richard blinked as if emerging from a fog. She knew exactly how he felt. Slowly he released her, trailing his hands lightly up to her waist and pressing a featherlight kiss to the corner of her mouth. He touched his forehead to hers, closing his eyes once more. “You taste every bit as good as you smell. Please forgive me for getting carried away.”

She took a steadying breath and tried to find the will to step from his arms. She felt so strange, as if she did not even know her own body. Somehow more aware of every sensation—the fabric of her dress against her skin, the sound of Richard’s heavy breathing, the lingering taste of lemon on her tongue—she immediately felt the loss of his heat as he took a small step back.