Never Resist Temptation (5 page)

Once he was served she returned to her corner. He watched her spoon the contents of her pot into a triangular cloth bag.

“What are you making?”

She cast him a quizzical look, her head cocked to one side, then returned to her task. “I think I'll let it be a surprise.” She squeezed blobs of thick pale yellow paste through a hole at the bottom of the bag onto a metal tray, which she then carried over to the stove. She opened the oven door and casually thrust her bare arm into the heat.

“Be careful,” he said in alarm, prepared to leap up and save her from being burned alive.

“I'm just checking that the oven is hot enough.” She laughed. “If it were dangerous there wouldn't be many cooks left.”

Once she'd put the tray into the oven, she came over to the table, sat down beside him, and poured herself a cup of tea.

“Tell me about your lady,” she invited. “Is it an arranged marriage?”

“Well,” he hedged, “I don't actually have anyone in mind yet. In fact I shall be doing some entertaining in London so that I can meet some suitable young women.” He'd only just thought of it, but it was a good plan. News of a dinner party—with a spectacular display of desserts—would reach Candover's ears. The trap needed to be baited.

“You've never married, Miss Castle,” he remarked. She was certainly attractive enough to find a husband.

She gave her characteristic shrug, which he labeled in the back of his mind as typically French. “Had my parents lived they would have arranged a match. Now, who knows?”

Anthony's curiosity was caught again. He was aware that arranged marriages were still the norm in France, more so than in England, among the upper orders. He didn't know if it was also true of other classes.

“Arranged marriages are no longer fashionable in this country,” he said. “It is thought better for a couple to be well acquainted and have some affection for each other.”

“No doubt that is true,” she rejoined, “but is it any more a guarantee of eventual happiness than marriage to a partner carefully selected by one's family?”

He considered his own parents. He believed that it been a love match, at first. But the love had become one-sided and brought neither partner long-term joy. He shied away from the thought. The emotions engendered by his recurrent dream were too raw.

“Was your parents' marriage arranged?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“And were they happy together?”

He detected a momentary guarded look before she replied. “I believe that both were satisfied with the arrangement.” A careful response that begged further questions.

“So you would have been content with your family's choice?”

She shrugged again. “Perhaps. More enlightened parents—and my father was certainly such—would never force a daughter into marriage without consultation.”

“But your father was English, after all.”

She seemed about to argue with him, then thought better of it. Instead she rose from her seat and went over to the stove.

Zut
. This was dangerous, Jacobin thought. She'd nearly contradicted him and revealed that her father was French. It was hard to keep her story straight. Whenever she conversed with this man she tended to forget her masquerade, to speak without reserve or dis-simulation. To be Jacobin de Chastelux.

She busied herself setting water and sugar to heat on the range, then looked for vanilla. She was pleased to find a supply of castor sugar already infused with vanilla beans. Mrs. Simpson might be difficult, but she ran an efficient kitchen.

She peered at Lord Storrington through her lashes. He was the epitome of informal masculine grace in his full-length claret velvet robe. Her mind recoiled from speculation about what he might be wearing beneath it. She eyed her jacket, which she'd taken off when the fire heated the room. Accustomed to working in frigid confectionery kitchens, she'd quickly become uncomfortably warm. But putting another garment on now would draw attention to her state of dishabille. It wasn't as though her shift was particularly indecent. It was made of sturdy muslin, she thought optimistically.

Giving the syrup a good stir, she decided not to ini
tiate further conversation. Any form of intimacy with Lord Storrington would be unwise or worse.

Apparently he didn't have the same compunction.

“Have you ever been in love, Miss Castle?”

Had he really asked that? It seemed so unlike the cool aristocrat she was acquainted with. She turned to examine him. He seemed oblivious that he'd said anything untoward. He looked at her with an air of disinterested curiosity that might be inspired by a question about the weather. She wanted to jolt his complacency.

“Yes, I have,” she replied, looking him full in the eye. “Once. But it didn't end well.”

“What happened?” He cocked his head forward with an intent look.

“Our feelings were not the same. It ended.” She infused her tone with subdued tragedy and summoned moisture to her eyes by dwelling on sad thoughts of maimed Parisian beggars and the hungry-eyed cats that haunted the Luxembourg Gardens. It was a trick she'd learned as a child and often put to good use when bending her doting parents to her will. To make sure he noticed her tears, she moved closer to the table.

She expected him to be embarrassed; instead he stood and took her hand.

“I'm sorry,” he said softly. “I've distressed you with my questions. Please forgive me.”

His hand cradling hers felt large and firm and warm. She looked down and noted the contrast between his well-manicured nails and her own fingers, which were roughened by work and bore several tiny scars from
cuts and burns, the inevitable bounty of the cook. His regret sounded genuine, and she was ashamed of her manipulation.

“It doesn't matter. Don't think anything of it.” She meant to smile reassuringly, but met his eyes. Dark gray in the dim light, they held sympathy and a warmer emotion she didn't want to identify. Breathless, she could only stand there, captured by his gaze and feeling a flush suffuse her cheeks. She wasn't much given to blushing, and the sensation was alien. She wasn't sure she liked it.

The aroma of baking roused her from a confused silence.

“The oven,” she muttered, retracting her hand and hurrying to the range. As she removed the tray from the oven she could still sense the pressure of his fingers gliding over hers as she'd pulled away.

He followed her to the stove and looked over her shoulder. She could feel his warm breath at her ear, mingling with the steam arising from the tray of pastries.

“Little puffy things,” he said, his voice husky and amused.

H
e'd followed her without conscious volition. The withdrawal of her hand seemed an unbearable loss, and he was driven to regain her proximity, her touch, the feel of her skin against his. But when he saw what she was cooking, the purely physical need to be near her was enhanced by a tug on his emotions. She was making something she believed he liked. The fact that she had risen in the middle of the night to prepare whatever those things were called made him feel…cared for. Which was absurd since she was, after all, a servant hired to cater to his tastes.

“May I have one?” he asked, reaching out.

As she put the tray down on top of the cast-iron range she lightly slapped his hand aside.

“Not yet. They're too hot. You'll burn yourself. Besides, they're not ready.”

On a mischievous impulse he tried to reach around her to grab one of the pastry puffs. She turned and stood in front of the tray, hands on her hips, a forbidding frown creasing her brow, belied by a glint of laughter in her glance.

“Please,” he asked, moving close to crowd her. She was tall for a woman, but with only a few inches of space between them the advantage of his height was exaggerated. She had to tip her head up to meet him eye to eye, and there was something about the stubborn set of her dimpled chin that made him gleeful.

“Please,” he repeated, like a small boy begging for sweets. In a lightning move he tried to sidestep her to snatch one of the delectably scented golden puffs. She was too quick for him and seized his marauding arm in a surprisingly strong grasp.

“
Non, méchant
,” she said. “You are very naughty, my lord. Now go and sit down again and wait. They'll be ready soon enough.”

For the moment he gave in and obeyed her. From his seat at the kitchen table he kept her under surveillance, pondering another attack. She gave a pot on the stove a good stir, then poured cream from a jug into a bowl on the table, a few feet from where he sat. Then his mind emptied of any notion of stealing pastry.

With a contraption that resembled a small stiff broom, she briskly whipped the cream. Through the sleeve of her shift he could see the taut muscles of her right arm at work. But what riveted his attention was once again the outline of her unconfined breasts. They gently jiggled as she moved, begging him to place his hands around them and discover if they were as firm and shapely as they appeared. The sight deadened his brain and had quite the opposite effect on his nether regions. It wasn't the first time since he'd met Jane Castle
that he was tempted to end a long dry period without a woman. But it was the first time he'd seriously considered doing something about it.

He stared as though mesmerized as the cream rose thick and fluffy in the bowl and she deftly sifted and beat in sugar. Then she gave the mixture a final stir and took a dollop from the whisk on her forefinger. Momentarily distracted from her breasts, his eyes followed the finger as she inserted it between perfectly bowed red lips and sucked it clean. Mentally he moaned.

Perhaps the noise wasn't just mental. She looked at him curiously. Apparently she saw nothing amiss and smiled in a friendly manner.

“Nearly there,” she said. “Are you hungry?”

“Yes,” he said hoarsely, unable to utter another word. He stopped noticing what she was doing. He was aware only of her body and her lips and a desperate need to possess her. The tiled floor of the kitchen was an unwelcoming surface for dalliance. Eyes momentarily distracted from the focus of his lust—why hadn't he realized before that breeches were such alluring garments on a female?—he considered the table. As large as a good-sized bed. Not as comfortable but with distinct possibilities. He imagined laying Jane Castle down on it, and found the vision more than pleasing. He fixed his glance on the object of his hunger and awaited his opportunity.

Her voice interrupted his planning. “Just a minute or two for the caramel to cool, then we can eat.”

The matter-of-fact tone acted on his fevered yearn
ing. Not like cold water—it would take an entire bathful of the stuff to do that—but perhaps like a cool shower of rain.
What the hell are you thinking
? he asked himself. Seducing a servant in a kitchen was very far from his usual sexual modus operandi. Past liaisons had been conducted in opulent love nests with well-paid courtesans. If he had any sense he'd stand up and keep walking, without looking back until he reached the safety of his own rooms.

Staggering uncomfortably to his feet, he again tightened the sash of his robe.

“It's late,” he said brusquely. “I should go back upstairs.”

“Oh no!” she objected. “You must have a taste before you go. They're at their best when fresh from the oven.”

Jacobin wasn't going to let him leave without sampling her pastry. It would be wiser to let him go. She'd had enough experience evading the advances of back-door visitors at her uncle's house to suspect that his intentions were seductive. But her professional mettle had been aroused.

She picked up one of the cream-filled puffs in its glossy caramel cloak and stood in front of him. He swayed backward, refusing the proffered morsel. With reckless audacity she moved closer and placed it to his lips. He took a bite, and her fascinated eyes followed the motion of his stubbled jaw and exposed throat as he consumed it. She could almost taste it with him: the light, spongy pastry for texture; the richness of the cream; the darker,
more intense sweetness of the caramelized sugar, taken from the fire at the very brink of burning.

“Delicious. I can see you haven't exaggerated your talents.” His lips parted in demand, so she popped the rest of the puff between them, removing her fingers just before they were captured by his closing mouth.

“I'm glad you're satisfied.”

These artless words—or perhaps the perfection of her pastry—seemed to affect his voice. “What are these things really called?” he croaked, staring at her so intently her very bones quivered.

“In French they are profiteroles. Little puffs made from
pâte à chou
and filled with
crème chantilly
.
Chou
is also the French word for ‘cabbage.'
Petit chou
—‘little cabbage'—is an endearment often used toward children.”

She was babbling, she knew. Anything to take her mind off the nearness of a large male clothed in a dressing gown and who knew what, or how little, else. Something, perhaps the scent of his skin, indefinable and enticing, had scrambled her brain.

“Do you want another?” she asked huskily. He nodded and popped one in his mouth, concentrating on the rich little wisp. She helped herself to one too. She bit carelessly and the inevitable happened: cream spewed from the overstuffed puff over her lips and chin. She could even feel a small cold blob on the tip of her nose.

Now she had all his attention.

“You've made a mess,” he chided. “Let me help you.”

Arms encircled her waist, and she felt a tongue delicately lick the end of her nose.

“Mm, sweet,” he murmured, then lowered his mouth to gather the remainder of the chantilly from her lips. Her tongue, engaged on the same mission, clashed with his, and his heat, mingling with the cool cream, was not unpleasant.

Quite the contrary.

She had to admit to herself that she'd wanted to kiss the Earl of Storrington. The reality was even better than her unconscious anticipation. Thought vanished into a vanilla haze as he deepened the embrace, plundering her mouth and drawing her body to his chest. It was unlike any kiss she'd ever experienced. She responded fervently, pulling his head closer with eager hands that laced through his hair and traced the shape of his skull.

His hands were busy too, massaging her back through the muslin shift, then descending to press her against him. She could feel his erection, alarmingly hard, but apprehension disappeared in a sensual wave, powerful enough to submerge any doubts. Her inarticulate mind reveled in contradictory sensations of delicious danger and a safety such as she'd rarely felt in years.

“Sweetness,” he murmured against her mouth, then renewed his assault. She didn't know whether it was an endearment or a comment on the cream. Neither did she care. All she knew was that this was where she was meant to be, what she'd been born to do.

Now his face was buried in her neck, kissing and
nipping the sensitive skin and sending lightning darts throughout her body that focused in a sweet, hot ache between her thighs.

“You feel so good,” he whispered. Large hands were pulling at the shift tucked into her breeches.

“Yes!” she urged, yearning for those hands to find her bare skin. “
Oui, mon chou
.”

Why had he stopped
? She wanted him to touch her
now
.

His arms hung at his sides as he drew back. He looked stricken.

“I'm sorry, so sorry. I shouldn't have done that. It shouldn't have happened.” Turning from her, he hurried to the door.

“I'm sorry,” he repeated as he left.