A Taste of Seduction (An Unlikely Husband) (12 page)

***

“I don’t think you should be in here, child,” the old woman said, wringing her hands. “Mr. Bishop wouldn’t approve. No, ma’am, he wouldn’t.”

Francie glanced up from the mountain of flour in her mixing bowl and gave the cook a warm smile. “Please don’t worry, Mrs. Jenkins. I’ll take full responsibility for my actions.”

Her comment seemed to worry the poor old woman even more. “Mr. Bishop wouldn’t approve,” she said again, shaking her gray head until the thick braided coil on top flopped from side to side. She’d been standing at the other end of the table, but now she moved closer, her short, round figure waddling to within inches of Francie. “In all the years I’ve been here, I’ve never seen him as much as poke his head in the kitchen,” she said in a low voice, her brown eyes darting toward the door.

“Good. Then there’s no reason to think he’ll ‘poke his head’ in here today, is there?” She leaned over and gave a good punch to the flour mixture. “Needs a bit more water, I think.”

Mrs. Jenkins cleared her throat but didn’t answer.

Francie glanced at the cook and saw the worry on her round face. “Don’t be concerned, Mrs. Jenkins. I’m making a surprise for Mr. Bishop.”

“A surprise?” The cook’s bun wobbled again. “Mr. Bishop does not like surprises.”

“Well, tonight he’s going to get one.” Francie said, adding a touch of water to the dough. For heaven’s sake, why would anyone take issue with rosemary and thyme bread? It was a peace offering, a request to start anew, forget all the unkind words and insinuations that had flowed between them.
And the kiss that almost happened. Yes, especially that.

She’d been plagued with that memory for two days
: Alexander’s silver gaze boring into her, making her all hot and cold at the same time, his warm breath fanning her cheek, his spicy cologne invading her senses. Now, whenever she looked at him, her gaze wandered to his mouth and she’d think of that afternoon in his study. Sometimes, she wondered how it would feel to be kissed by him, his mouth moving over hers, wanting, needing, possessing. It was crazy to speculate such a thing, crazier even to consider wanting to speculate, but in the dark of the night, with no one but her thoughts, she did just that.

“Mr. Bishop—” the cook began again.

“—will be fine,” Francie said, cutting off her concerns. She punched the dough once, twice, three times, enjoying the springy softness beneath her hands. “Everyone who’s ever tasted my rosemary and thyme bread loves it. It’s my aunt’s recipe. We used to make several loaves a week and send them to the neighbors.”

Aunt Eleanor
. She was doing so much better, even sitting up in a chair and moving about her room with Uncle Bernard’s assistance. Her face remained swollen and bruised, but her spirits were high. A taste of homemade rosemary and thyme bread might just lift them even higher.

“The only kind of bread Mr. Bishop likes is plain white dinner rolls,” Mrs. Jenkins said, a half-scared look skittering across her face. “Sometimes white bread with strawberry jam. Depends on the day.”

Francie looked up from her kneading. “Depends on the day?”

The older woman nodded. “White dinner rolls on odd days, white bread with jam on even.”

“What if Mr. Bishop should desire to have a white dinner roll on an even day?” she asked, not believing what she’d just heard. “What would happen then?”

“He wouldn’t,” the cook said, a broad grin spreading over her face to reveal two deep dimples on either side of her mouth.

“Why not?”

“They’re Mr. Bishop’s rules.” She folded her fleshy arms over her ample middle and said, “And Mr. Bishop always keeps to his rules.”

“I see.” But Francie didn’t see. Not at all.

“So now you understand about your bread. He won’t eat it. Even if it was plain white, it’s not a roll.”

“And today’s an odd day,” Francie murmured.

Odd indeed.

“Now you’ve got it. Odd days for rolls, even for bread. And white. Always and only white,” the cook said with an air of authority.

Oh, she’d gotten it all right. White bread and white rolls.
Even and odd. All Francie knew for certain was Alexander Bishop was the odd one here. Crazy was a more apt description. Good heavens, what kind of man organized his meals according to a number system?

What else did he organize in this manner? And why?

Obviously, Alexander Bishop needed help. He needed someone to teach him about spontaneity and chance. Impulsiveness and happenstance.

She could show him those things. Francie enjoyed an unfettered existence, roaming the fields and woods of Amberden, gathering new experiences with the same enthusiasm she showed when gathering the herbs and flowers she loved so much.

Perhaps that’s what Alexander needed. New and different experiences. Or perhaps only a new and different way to experience the same thing. She smiled. What better way to start than with a taste of her delicious, mouth-watering rosemary and thyme bread?

***

“What is this?” Alexander said, staring at the plate in front of him.

“Roast beef,” Francie answered. “With cauliflower and potatoes smothered in a light cream sauce, of course.”

He threw her a disgusted look. “I know how to identify food. There should be pork and peas on this plate. The only thing right about it is the potatoes.”

“Delicious,” Philip said, around a mouthful of cauliflower.

“Excellent,” Bernard agreed. “Roast beef is one of my favorites. Didn’t have it near enough in Amberden. Eleanor will love this.”

“Where’s the pork?” Today was Wednesday. Alexander ate roast pork with peas and potatoes every Wednesday. Roast beef was Saturday’s menu. And it was to be served with carrots, not cauliflower.

Francie cleared her throat. “The change in menu was my fault. Mrs. Jenkins told me about the silly little rule you had.” She scooped up a forkful of cauliflower and laughed. “Honestly, Alexander. Pork on Wednesdays, roast beef on Saturdays? What if on Monday your mouth watered for a fine piece of roasted pork?”

“I’d wait until Wednesday,” he bit out.

She shook her head and laughed again. “But you needn’t. That’s the point. You could have a loaf of bread and a hunk of cheese if you’d like.”

He glared at her. “But I don’t ‘like’. What I would like is for you to not interfere with the hired help.”

“But, Alexander,” she said, pinning her blue gaze on him. “It’s so...” her voice dropped to a whisper, “boring.”

The earl and Bernard fell into coughing fits within seconds of each other.

“Father! Uncle Bernard!” She was half out of her chair when both men raised their hands to ward her off.

“Fine. I’m fine,” Philip said, coughing one more time.

Bernard took a drink of water, his face red. “Me, too. Must’ve gotten something caught in my throat.”

He coughed again.

“I’ve got something in the library to take care of that little tickle,” Philip said. He pushed his chair away from the table and addressed Alexander and Francie. “If you’ll excuse us for a few moments?”

“Of course.” So the old men didn’t want to wait around to hear him explode.

When they’d both left, Francie turned to Alexander and whispered, “Whiskey.”

“Whiskey?” He cocked a brow.

“Whiskey,” she repeated, nodding. “That’s what they’re going to use to take care of that little tickle.”

He almost smiled but buried it with a frown. “Yes, I imagine they are.” He set down his fork. “Whiskey has many purposes, some of them even medicinal.”

“I can’t believe Father is imbibing when he knows he shouldn’t.” She worried her lower lip. “He should refrain from all manner of alcohol—”

“Francie,” Alexander cut in.

“Yes?”

Those clear blue eyes looked at him with such innocence, such honesty, it tugged at something deep inside, making him want to forget about his proper lifestyle, forget about eating pork on Wednesday and roast beef on Saturday. Forget about everything but wrapping himself in the warmth of her smile.

“Yes?” she repeated.

Was he imagining it or had her voice dropped an octave to a breathy whisper? His gaze fell to her lips.
Full, pink lips. Lips he’d come close to tasting. So close. God, but he couldn’t get that image from his mind. The memory of Francie leaning into him, waiting for his kiss, kept him awake many a night. A couple shots of whiskey usually served as a soothing balm. As he’d told Francie, whiskey had many purposes.

Alexander ran a hand over his face. What was he thinking? He and Francie were as different as...as...as pork and roast beef. They had nothing in common. She was too impulsive, too outspoken, and too brash for his subdued tastes. She was too much of everything he opposed. Good God, the woman didn’t even know how to behave like a proper lady!

“Alexander?”

There it was again, that low, breathy voice tapping at the cool exterior he worked so hard to maintain.

“What?” he snapped. Where were Philip and Bernard? They’d had enough time to throw back
three
whiskeys.

“You interrupted me.” She tilted her head to one side and tiny spirals of red hair brushed the swell of her breast.

Nothing in common
, he reminded himself.

“You were about to say something,” she said.

I think your breasts would fit very nicely in the palms of my hands
.

“Alexander!”

My God, had he spoken aloud? “What?”

Francie leaned over and touched his coat sleeve. His senses exploded with lavender.

“What’s wrong? Are you angry with me for changing the menu?”

He frowned. That was a safe subject. Much easier to tell her he’d been thinking about pork and roast beef than to admit he’d been fantasizing about her breasts and lips. He was truly depraved. “I don’t like surprises,” he said in a stern voice.

Her face fell. “That’s what Mrs. Jenkins tried to tell me.” She looked away and her lower lip quivered. “But I wanted to show you not all surprises are bad. Sometimes they can be very good.” She sniffed. “I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”

Her words hit him like a kick in the gut. What kind of cad was he, anyway?
A heartless one, no doubt. The poor woman obviously went to great lengths to involve herself in his meal, only to have him berate her for the effort.

Before he had time to consider his thoughts, Alexander found himself saying, “Perhaps once in a while would be all right.”

She looked up and he saw a glimmering of unshed tears in her crystalline gaze. Her lips curved into a brilliant smile, lighting her entire face.

He never wanted that smile to fade.

“All right,” he blurted out. “You may interchange the vegetables, but leave the meats the same.” Her smile broadened. “For now,” he added.

“And the dinner rolls and bread?” He heard the teasing note in her voice. “May I interchange those as well?”

Alexander opened his mouth to answer but was interrupted by the maid bringing in a covered dish. She set it down halfway between Francie and himself, curtsied, and left.

“I’ll be right back,” Francie said, rising from the table and reaching for the covered dish. “I think she brought in the wrong dish.”

“Wait.” Alexander circled her wrist with his hand. “How do you know it’s the wrong dish when you haven’t even looked at it?”

“Oh, I just know.” She tried to disengage her hand, but he held fast. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll return in a moment with your dinner rolls.”

What was the little minx up to now? A moment ago, she almost burst into tears. Now she wanted to bolt with a dish of food. He tilted his head to one side and studied her. Why was she avoiding his gaze? She was hiding something and he’d bet it was under that covered dish. He reached out and pulled off the silver lid.

“What’s this?” He stared at what looked like a loaf of bread speckled with small bits of green.

“That?” Her gaze slid to the bread. “Oh, it’s rosemary and thyme bread.”

Alexander cocked a brow. “Another surprise?”

She nodded and shot him a look from the corner of her eye.

“Did you make this, Francie?” He knew it wasn’t the handiwork of Mrs. Jenkins. White dinner rolls and white bread with strawberry jam were all she made. He’d drilled it into her brain so many times, she’d never deviate. This little concoction had to be Francie’s creation.

“Yes.”

She looked so pitiful, standing there, like a child gifting a parent with a handful of wildflowers, uncertain if they’d be put in a vase or thrown in the rubbish bin.

Alexander glanced at the bread again. Rosemary and thyme? He recognized the names, knew some people used them for cooking and such, but that was the extent of his familiarity with them. Hmmm. They were awfully...green. And there was quite a lot of it sprinkled about. He glanced at Francie, who stood staring straight ahead, her full lips tight and unsmiling, her chin lifted a notch or two.

Waiting. No doubt, waiting for him to make a nasty remark about the food she’d prepared.
For him.