Not that Francesca knew a thing about baking or cooking. But the only heat level to follow the one now scorching the kitchens was surely Satan’s-inferno-hot.
Planting her hands on her hips, she eyed all the baking items she’d laid out.
As in, all of them. Wholly foreign to all things baking, she’d not known where to start and had dragged out all that Lathan Holman possessed, along with the only book on baking from his small library.
The same book she’d collected when he’d been bent over his work, so intent he’d lifted his head for only a brief “good morning” before going back to his papers.
Which was fine.
Nay, it was beyond fine, really.
It was beyond fine that they were friends and that he didn’t wish to marry or have children… and that she’d marry whom she’d marry. Someone who wasn’t Lathan Holman.
Francesca hadn’t invited herself to stay with Lathan so that she might be a bother, here to distract him from what he needed to do. The sole reason she’d petitioned him to let her remain was so that she might complete her list without the influence of a Society determined to suppress her.
And yet…
It wasn’t. She squeezed her eyes briefly shut. After just a short time spent together, she’d gone and fallen hopelessly in love with him. Lathan Holman, a man who’d no wish for a partner in life… that was, a partner outside the Home Office. She loved him for teasing her and challenging her and for not only having opened her eyes to the fact that she’d failed to live for herself, but encouraging her to do just that. To do so when anyone else in Society would have cringed and chafed at a lady living outside the constraints of the ton’s expectations. And… there was the very simplest of reasons—she enjoyed being with him.
Her gaze slid over to the doorway.
After everything he’d confided yesterday—his time with the Home Office, the mistakes he’d made, the guilt he carried, his regrets and shame—she’d believed…
What? That something meaningful had passed between them?
Just as she’d made more in her mind out of the passionate embraces they’d shared.
She stuck her tongue out. “Friends,” she mouthed, mimicking one of the last words they’d exchanged yesterday. Well, if friends was what they were and all they’d ever be, she’d be wise to not make any more out of… any of it than she already had.
She’d been so very close to telling him of the marquess and her father’s request for her to marry him, but for what end? What, when the only thing she’d wished for him to say was that he wanted a future with—
“Stop!”
“Francesca?” Lathan questioned from out in the living room.
“I’m fine,” she called back. Not fine. And was it really too much for him to come and ask her if he had a question?
Francesca gave her head a hard shake, determined to dislodge all musings of Lathan Holman.
“Focus,” she said, getting back to work. For there could be no doubting that anything and everything that took place in the kitchens was most decidedly work.
Francesca dropped her gaze to the book that lay propped out at the center of the table and glared. “The Art of Cookery Made Plain and Easy,” she muttered, swiping the tattered old volume up. She drummed her fingertips over the faded title. “I’ve been studying you for two hours now, and there’s nothing plain or easy about you.”
She’d also developed a greater appreciation for all the magic woven by the kitchen servants.
And also, a humbling realization of just how few skills she possessed.
“First stealing my horse and now burning down my cottage.”
Francesca squealed. The book went flying from her fingers.
Lathan. Wearing a wry grin, his arms crossed, he lounged one broad shoulder against the door.
Her heart jumped several beats, as it did whenever he was near. “Lathan,” she greeted as calmly as she might.
“Dare I ask what’s next?” he drawled, casting a dubious stare about the room.
With a frown, she rushed to retrieve her book. His book, technically. Either way, she hurriedly turned through the pages. She landed on the recipe she’d been reading. “I’m not burning down your cottage.” She paused and cast a glance at the stove. “At least I don’t think I am.”
“Fair enough.” He abandoned his spot at the door and joined her, his gait more even and steady, as she’d come to recognize mornings were easier for him. The day seemed to tax his leg. Not for the first time, she wondered what had happened to his leg. “Dare I ask anything at all about what you’re up to?” he asked when he stopped beside her.
“I’m baking.” She wrinkled her nose. Or rather, she was trying to.
“You bake?”
“I don’t.” She squared her shoulders. “But I’m going to.” Nay, that wasn’t correct either. Francesca released a sigh. “I want to.”
“Ahh,” he said with a dawning understanding in that slight exhalation.
“But there’s so many ingredients called for. And there’s some in your stocks, but not others. Then there’s the matter of many items are seasonal and can’t be found.” Well, at least not in his remote cottage and corner of the world, anyway. “And then there’s the matter of having to find a recipe that also includes all the items you have in stock.” She waved her hand as she spoke. The book she held came dangerously close to his nose, and he angled away from her gesticulating. “You have salt and pepper and flour and butter, but then no beef readily on hand for a dripping.”
“I can imagine that would pose a problem when following a recipe,” he said drolly.
Furthermore…
“What is even a beef dripping?” She didn’t give him a moment to answer. Francesca frantically turned page after page. “Nothing about this is easy.”
“Should it be?” he countered.
Francesca ignored that pragmatic question. “Six, Lathan. Siiix.”
“I’m afraid you are going to have to clarify a bit, lo—”
“Did you know there are six ways to make a crust? At the very least,” she said, shaking the book at him. “That’s all that I’ve come across thus far, but who is to say how many ways there, in fact, are?” Hysteria simmered inside her.
“And you find it problematic that there are multiple ways to do something?” Lathan worked his eyes over the filled table. “I think there are many factors in your efforts more probl—”
She frowned. “It is problematic when one is attempting to learn to bake,” she said, not allowing him to finish that thought.
“Ah… back to your list again.”
That list she’d now made to see her life full and joyous…
Her breath grew into a fast pace, those rasps coming loud in her ears, blending with her pulse. Francesca flipped through the pages. “Did you know to make lemon tarts, one must rub the lemons with salt and put them in water for two whole days?”
“I did not—”
Francesca whipped the page. “And then change them to fresh water every day without salt.”
“No. That is new—”
Francesca turned the book and put it so close to his face, Lathan’s eyes went crossed. “For a fortnight, Lathan. A fortnight.” Panic sent her voice climbing. She didn’t have fourteen days. As it was, she likely didn’t have four more. Her pacing grew more frantic. “Half a damned month to make tarts, Lathan? Half a month?” It was a wonder the duke’s driver and her servants hadn’t already knocked upon every door in the country—including Lathan’s—and found her here.
And that only cemented the fact she’d not allowed herself to think about—her time here, with Lathan, was limited. And her time with another, the man her father had handpicked for her, would begin someday.
Tears blurred her eyes, and she stopped and sank onto a kitchen chair.
She blinked, not wanting to cry. But blast and damn… “Tarts, Lathan,” she cried. “T-tarts.” A single drop spiraled down her cheek, quickly followed by anoth
er and another.
Lathan slipped the book from her fingers. “Here,” he murmured in gentling tones, and then sinking to a knee, he reached up and brushed a tear from her cheek with the pad of his callused thumb.
Oh, God. It was too much.
Pressing her eyes closed, Francesca sucked in a shaky breath. The legs of the other kitchen chair scraped along the wood floor as Lathan pulled it over, arranging it so he faced her. She made herself open her eyes. “Two weeks for tarts,” she whispered. His beautiful visage swam before her face. A moment later, a scrap of white dangled in front of her eyes as Lathan held over a kerchief.
Accepting the fabric, she lightly dusted her fingertips over his initials. LAH. She didn’t even know what the A stood for, because even with all they’d shared, she’d leave in a few days’ time, and Lathan Holman would remain a stranger. No, he isn’t… and that’s why you’re so bloody miserable. Francesca blew her nose into the scrap, and her fists closed hard around it, crumpling the cloth into a messy ball.
“You’re running out of time,” he said softly.
She wiped her nose with the wadded-up kerchief and nodded. How easily they were able to tell each other’s thoughts. Only, that musing brought on a fresh onslaught of tears.
Lathan brushed his knuckles down the curve of her cheek. Back and forth. Over and over. That tender warmth had a calming effect, and Francesca’s breath settled into a smooth, even rhythm.
She turned her face into that caress, leaning into him and his touch so that their eyes met. “It took me almost thirty years to realize I should live for myself, only to find I’ll never have the time to complete any of what I want. N-not truly.” Not married to the Marquess of St. James.
Their eyes met.
He is going to kiss me.
He is going to press his mouth to mine, and I want that so very desperately.
Only…
Lathan drew her onto his lap and simply held her.
She found she yearned for this quiet intimacy even more.
Francesca rested there, and Lathan’s embrace managed to drive back the panic and fear that had dogged her since she’d considered her finite time here. She wouldn’t think of tomorrow or the next tomorrow. Or the one after that. Closing her eyes, she breathed in the scent of him, a mix of bergamot and bay leaves and so very male.
In his arms, there was a feeling of being… home.
Francesca went absolutely motionless.
Just like that, panic surged back to life.
Home wasn’t in this man’s arms. It shouldn’t be. Nay, it couldn’t be.
There was a future awaiting her elsewhere. One that included another man.
But you’ve not agreed to marry the marquess. Only to meet to see if you suit.
All at once, her mind began to race with an onslaught of questions. What if she didn’t marry the Marquess of St. James? What if she opted instead to ignore that last request her father had made?
And yet, as soon as the thought slid in, it died. Here, in Lathan’s cottage, this place of pretend and make-believe where the world ceased to exist, it was so very easy to dismiss her late father’s wishes for her security and safety. But her time here was coming to an end, and when it did, Francesca would rejoin Society, and there’d still be the matter of Francesca being a woman on her own.
Were there no Lathan Holman, would you even now be thinking about rejecting the marquess?
That morn, Lathan had at last formulated the foundation of an encrypted code to be proud of. One that, if properly worked out, would offer a complexity to the British Home Office greater than anything they’d used in decades.
As such, he should be eagerly mapping out all the details and working through samplings.
Instead, he’d come to the kitchens. Drawn here because of Francesca. And now, he couldn’t leave… He didn’t want to leave, because more than anything—more even than his need to prove himself to the Home Office once more—Lathan wanted to drive back the sadness that held her ensnared.
Yet that wasn’t all it was.
He just wanted to be with her.
There’d be time later to wonder or worry after why. But, as she’d pointed out, for now their time together was limited.
Lathan set Francesca on her feet.
Her eyes flew open, and disappointment glimmered within their all-too-revealing purple-blue depths.
Removing his jacket, he hung it over the back of a kitchen chair and then proceeded to clean.
“I can see to that,” she assured, hurrying to collect some of the items she’d left out and following him into the pantry. “I didn’t intend to leave it a mess,” she said as they went about cleaning the remainder of the table.
“Here.” He held over two smaller pots. “You can put this one away.” She’d already started over to the cabinets. “Fill the other with water from the pan there.”
She paused midstride and looked back. “Water?”
“It is generally a substance for drinking or baking,” he said dryly, and as she went about those tasks, he organized the flour and butter she’d laid out. Rubbing his hand over his chin, he considered the items.
“How much water do you require?”
Lathan fetched the rolling pin. “Enough.”
“Enough for what? I don’t know what that means.”
He eyed the flour in the large mixing bowl. “How much have you taken out?” he asked when she rejoined him with the small pan.
At her silence, Lathan glanced over.
She gave him a sheepish look. “Er… a lot?”
Lathan chuckled. When had he enjoyed himself this much? And over nothing more than playing in a kitchen with the impish Francesca Cornworthy. “All right, then.” He hefted the bowl. “A third of a peck, I think. What say you?” he asked, placing the item in question in her arms.
She sagged ever so slightly under the added weight. “Uh, I believe that is…” Francesca shook her head helplessly. “I don’t know,” she blurted in her customary honesty. “I’ve never been much for numbers. Always found them quite tedious, though if I’d known I should one day become a baker and that a skill with numbers was required, I might have paid a bit more attention to my nursemaid’s instructions.” Francesca narrowed her eyes. “Are you laughing at me, Lathan Holman?”
His shoulders shook from the welcome force of his amusement. “Never. I’m smiling because of you.”
Her eyes went soft. “Oh.”
Lathan’s neck went hot. He cleared his throat. “Back to what we were doing.”
Francesca passed her gaze from the more tidied table and then back to him. “And… what are we doing, Lathan?”
“We’re baking, of course.”
Francesca brought the mixing bowl close to her heart. “We are?”
Lathan relieved her of the vessel and set it back down. “We are.” He might as well have handed her the summer sun on this cold winter’s day for all the adulation in her eyes. And despite that cold, the heat on his neck climbed a degree. “Unless you’ve opted to cross that particular item off of your list and replace it with another?”
“No,” she exclaimed and put herself in front of him. “That is, I haven’t changed my mind, and I’d welcome the help.”
He dusted his hands together. “Let’s begin, then. First, we’ll need about a quarter of a peck of flour and a pound of butter.”
Francesca rushed to fetch the latter ingredient from the opposite end of the table. “And just what are we making?”
He paused in midreach for the pan filled with water. “I thought we might bake a pie.”
“You know how to bake?”
“Some.”
She froze on the other side of the table. “Indeed?” she whispered.
Never had anyone ever looked at him the way this woman did now. The world had always possessed a matter-of-fact view of him as a person. They’d seen him as his work. Or, in his family’s case, as the dutiful son. But never had anyone stared at him as though he we
re a person of worth and interest, and it left him feeling all manner of sentiments and emotions he didn’t understand. Or understand what to do with.
As such, Lathan trained his gaze on the bowl. “The trick is to rub in the butter until it is fine, like so.” He proceeded to roll the butter into the flour. “You’ll need to add the water to make a light paste…”
His skin pricked from the feel of her gaze upon him.
He looked up.
Francesca had seated herself, and with her chin in her hand, she watched him as he worked. “How did you learn to bake?”
“I live alone here in the country.”
“So you didn’t know how to do so before you lived here?”
A strand of hair fell over his brow, and with the back of his forearm, he shoved it back. “My parents would have considered my learning to bake or cook the equivalent of committing treason,” he said drolly. To them, either was an offense worthy of his expulsion from the family.
Understanding lit her eyes. “They are of the ton.”
“Only among Society’s most respected, proper, decorum-driven, leading hosts and hostesses.” He’d never known his parents any other way. There’d never been warmth or affection. They’d never possessed maternal or paternal bonds with Lathan or any of his two siblings. “The Earl and Countess of Maldavers.”
“Ahhh.” There was a wealth of knowing in that soft exclamation.
He winged a brow up. “I trust you’ve heard of them, then.”
“I attended many an event in their… in your household.” Her expression grew wistful. “To think we were so very close.”
“I hardly went to my parents’ affairs. My elder two brothers were the only ones they required in attendance. The heir and the spare and no one more. After all, what was the likelihood the third in line would ever see the rank of earl? As such, there was little need to bother with a younger son.”
He’d come to peace with that long ago.
Or… he believed he had, anyway.
Yet, as Francesca stretched a hand across the table and covered his with her own, it felt as though he was lying to himself.
Staring down at their clasped palms, he cleared his throat. “It’s all I ever knew.” Did he seek to reassure Francesca? Or himself? “I was too consumed with my work, and there wasn’t time for parties.” But what if he had? What if he’d gone and met Francesca there? How would life have been different? Would it have been…
The Spinster Who Saved a Scoundrel (The Brethren Book 5) Page 12
