by Ellie Hall
She already had rocked his world.
Delicious, savory smells of fresh herbs with the faint trace of garlic invited them into the kitchens. All work ceased and everyone bowed with respect as Oliver entered.
Penelope’s eyes widened.
“You get used to it,” he whispered.
“So, I’m supposed to bow when I see you?”
“No, you don’t have to.”
“But it’s etiquette.”
“Yes, but—”
Joining the kitchen staff, she bowed along with them.
A woman with short, dark hair emerged from the group.
“Good day, everyone. Ah, Mrs. Newman, just the person we were looking for.” He greeted the head of service.
“Winston let me know in advance that you’ll require the baking kitchen,” said the coordinator for employment, positions, and stations at the palace. She tilted her head in Penelope’s direction.
“Shall we?” Oliver asked.
Mrs. Newman shook her head for a moment and smiled. “You look familiar, Miss.”
Penelope seemed to shrink under the woman’s gaze.
Oliver smiled at the kitchen staff as they passed. “She hasn’t been back here for over a decade, which must’ve been prior to your employ.”
“I suppose I see so many faces in a day’s work it’s hard to keep track. Right this way to the baker’s kitchen.”
Penelope trailed behind but when she stepped into the space her eyes lit up. Ovens lined one short wall with a marble work table as long as the one in the banquet hall. Behind them was a pantry the size of a small store and on another wall were shelves with numerous appliances and kitchen tools. A faint haze of flour filled the air.
Penelope spun in a circle. “It’s magnificent.”
“My apologies, you won’t be able to meet Mr. Park, our master baker. I’m afraid he’s ill.”
Penelope froze.
“By chance have you heard from his son, Henry?” Oliver asked after his old friend.
“Unfortunately, no. We’ve tried all of his most recent contacts but I’m afraid not.”
“I’m sure Mr. Park will recover soon. He’d probably prefer to see his son when he’s feeling more himself.”
“Yes, I agree, Sir. Mrs. Newman nodded.
Kitchen workers entered carrying large bowls brimming with dough and turned it out.
Penelope shifted uneasily. He thought she was acting funny, but perhaps it was another wave of nostalgia or emotion. She’d only been back in London for a few days and likely it would take much longer for her to process the reminders of her grief. He still had moments that were particularly difficult when he recalled his own parents.
“I suppose I’ll leave you to it,” Mrs. Newman said. “If there’s anything you need, please let me know.”
Penelope gripped a container of chocolate chips. “Actually, doesn’t the baker have their own room or something?”
“This entire kitchen is dedicated to the bakery. Through there, where we came from,” Mrs. Newman pointed, “you’ll find the regular kitchen and pantry. We also have a wine cellar, cheese cave…” she continued, listing the areas dedicated to all things culinary.
“I, um, like to bake in, um, private.”
His lips quirked. “Is that so no one nabs the chocolate chips?” He reached for the container.
She playfully whacked him.
Mrs. Newman cast them a disapproving look.
They both straightened.
“I’ll leave you to it,” Mrs. Newman said, looking them over one more time.
As soon as the door swung shut, Oliver reached for the chocolate chips again. “I’m the cookie bandit and this is a robbery,” he joked.
She giggled, trying to keep them out of his reach.
He feinted right then left as she evaded him, still clutching the container of chocolate chips. They neared the rows of sheet pans when he stretched his arms around her, only meaning to cage her in and seize the chocolate with triumph, but he slipped on the tile floor. They careened onto the palette containing large bags of flour and landed with a puff. The fine powder lifted and then rained down like snow.
Oliver had twisted to land on the bottom and break her fall. They were eye to eye. He could see the faint traces of freckles, from when the days were sunnier and warmer. Her lips were full, puffy, kissable. He’d dated numerous women but never had he felt this way—so connected to her, so consumed. He took a deep breath to steady himself and imagined he wore nothing short of a boyish grin on his face.
She smirked as though reading his thoughts. For one fantastic moment, he relished the feeling of her warm weight on top of him before she wriggled to standing.
“Apologies,” he said as they both brushed off. “I guess I got carried away.”
“Wait until you try the cookies though, it’ll be worth it.” Penelope set the container on the counter and gathered the rest of the ingredients.
They were quiet while she measured and poured, mixed and scooped. After the first batch was done, she broke her silence, shaking off whatever had been bothering her. “Wow. I feel better, more relaxed.”
“Would you say baking for you is like meditating?”
She nodded. “I suppose so. I just wander into my own little world and get a really yummy treat out of the deal. Now, it’s your turn.”
“I already meditated this morning. I wake at five, have a period of meditation and prayer, go for a sixty-minute run, then have thirty with my trainer followed by breakfast. All in a day’s work.”
“I meant what’s your favorite kind of cookie that you’d like to try to bake?”
“I love chocolate chip.”
She pointed to the oven where the scent of warm chocolate already mingled with the other wonderful smells in the kitchen. “My sis—friend, Emma and I call them Chocolate Chippers.”
“Is it acceptable to have a glass of milk too?”
She nodded. “Second favorite kind? Oatmeal raisin, snickerdoodle, peanut butter, double chocolate, butterscotch, shortbread—”
“Oooh, you’re killing me. I’d like one of each.”
“Seeing as you’ve never baked before and there’s only one of me…”
A jolt ran though Oliver and he wanted nothing more than to feel the curve of her back, the soft skin behind her ear, her lips… “There is only one of you,” he repeated. His voice was low, foreign.
“You have to pick.”
The jolt returned and his gaze didn’t waver. He tried to convey the deep well of his desire with his eyes, what wouldn’t be appropriate to say aloud. The words formed a rebellion on his tongue. He wanted to tell her but he stopped. “Shortbread. They remind me of you.” When he spoke, his voice was almost a growl.
She took a moment to reply and bit her lip. “Is that because I’m short. I mean, I’m not that short.” She lengthened her spine and lifted her chin.
No, it was because their time was so short. He sensed the queen was going to select Odelia. She was British born but grew up in France, creating a greater alliance than Colette would (who was clearly in love with someone else), Genevieve (who was intolerable), and Penelope (who was everything but didn’t check off the royal boxes required to maintain the international relations between the two countries).
Oliver sighed.
“Shortbread it is,” Penelope said. “You’ll need an apron and a smile.”
His eyes lit with amusement. “Am I not jolly enough for your cookie recipe?”
“Trust me, you can taste the love.”
His eyes lingered on her lips as she spoke. He wished he could taste the love right then. But he cast his thoughts aside and followed her instructions, measuring the flour, combining the butter and sugar, and being very precise about it—she insisted.
“You know, my sister would instantly adore you.”
She dropped a scooper with a clang. “Your sister?” She looked terrified.
“Yeah, Ava. She loves cookies.”
> “Oh. Where is she, anyway?”
“Probably off pouting somewhere because she'll always just be a princess.” He meant it as a joke. In actuality, she was traveling the world on a service mission for the monarchy.
“Just a princess?” Penelope asked.
“In Concordia, the firstborn or next male in line becomes king. If my parents had had two daughters, Uncle Garfield would take the throne. If something happens to me or if I don’t marry, remember I mentioned that it goes to him?”
“Not Ava? That hardly seems fair.”
“I suppose the rule was put into place to keep one direct family from ruling for eternity.”
The timer dinged to indicate the chocolate chip cookies were done. Penelope carefully removed them from the oven and set the trays to cool. Oliver reached for one while the chocolate was still warm and melty. Penelope swatted his hand like she’d done when he tried to get the chips. He liked to see her cheeks flush with frustration as they did now. He could practically feel their warmth summoning him closer like to a flame.
“You have to wait until they cool.” She whacked his hand as he made a second grab, but this time he caught her hand with his and laced his fingers around hers. Their backs were to the rest of the kitchen and to anyone watching it would appear as if they were merely working closely, side by side.
Penelope looked from their linked hands to his eyes. With her distracted, he reached for a still warm cookie and took a bite. “It’s delicious.”
She opened her mouth as if to scold him, but he held up the rest of the cookie and fed her a bite. She closed her eyes.
He imagined she would be delicious too if he could simply place his lips on hers.
From somewhere in the kitchen, a bell chimed and for a moment he thought it was Winston but they still had time together before his scheduled meeting with Genevieve. It wasn’t much but he was thankful for every second.
Penelope insisted they clean up and while they waited for the rest of the shortbread cookies to cook, they chatted about her love of baking and he helped himself to another.
“This is a very good combination,” he said around a mouthful.
“It’s chocolate chip, a classic.”
“No, I mean you and me. You like baking and I like eating.”
“Don’t be fooled, I like eating cookies too and I’ve been known not to share.” Giggling, she took a nibble from the one his hand.
He swallowed hard. “What do you mean you don’t share? How about the homeless man?”
She shrugged.
“The dogs?”
“My friend Emma is opening a dog bakery here in London.”
“Did you go to school with her?”
“Yes, actually.” She cleared her throat. “Is it about time for us to get going?” she asked.
He noticed a sudden shift like she was closing off from further conversation.
They strolled slowly through the halls and Penelope stopped in front of a painting, studying it. “Who’s that?” she asked. Oliver started to tell her about the marquis but she interrupted. “No, I mean the dog.”
“Oh, that’s Winston.”
“Like your manny?” she teased.
“Yes, and we should probably head back.”
But they didn’t pick up their pace.
“If you could adopt a dog what would you name it?”
“Oh, I plan to adopt many dogs when I return to the castle. One for every year the queen told me I couldn’t have one. You?”
“I’m not sure. I’d have to meet it first, I guess. But I’ve always liked the name Duke.”
“Like Genevieve’s father?” he asked with a laugh. “The Duke of Flushington.”
They stopped abruptly. Genevieve and Winston, the man, not the dog, stood in the foyer. She wore a robe and a pair of slippers with feathers on the toes.
“What’s this about my father?” Her eyes were narrowed and a scowl scrawled across her lips.
Oliver smoothed his hand down his shirt and dusted off a bit of flour. “Penelope was saying that she’d consider naming her hypothetical dog, Duke.”
“That’s disgraceful and you know what else is? She’s a thief.” Genevieve pointed at Penelope.
Chapter 11
Penny
Penny had an empty pit in her stomach despite just having eaten her share of cookies. That was it. She was going to be exposed. If she’d only stopped it before it got so out of hand. She stepped forward, ready to finally confess.
Genevieve held up her hand and the sleeve of her robe dropped to her elbow. “I do not want to hear a word out of your mouth. I have no doubt every single one would be a lie.”
“Wait a minute, what is going on?” Oliver said. “Genevieve, this is a weighty claim, explain yourself.”
Genevieve huffed as though upset that Oliver would dare question her. “This would never stand at my estate.”
Winston said, “Early this morning Miss Dickerson reported she was missing a piece of jewelry. I’ve had the footmen, the valets, and the lady’s maids searching the palace top to bottom. Apparently, it’s a priceless heirloom.” Winston coughed politely. “Unfortunately, it was discovered in the Langdon Suite in the east wing.”
Genevieve glared. “That’s your room,” she fired at Penny.
She stepped back as though the accusation was a blow. That was not what she expected. “I didn’t take anything of yours, Genevieve.”
“It’s my word against yours, Penelope. You’ve earned yourself a reputation flitting off to America and who knows what they allowed at that school.”
Penny straightened, prepared to defend the real Penelope. “I received a proper education and was taught proper manners, which includes not outright accusing someone of theft without evidence.”
“So democratic of you. You were caught red-handed.”
Penny held up her hands. “How’s that possible? Where do you suppose I allegedly took it from? I don’t even know where your suite is.”
Genevieve arched her eyebrow. “Likely story. Winston, I think we should take this matter to the queen.”
“Go right ahead, I have nothing to hide.” Still, anxiety was like ice in her veins.
“You were out of your room last night,” Oliver started.
A film of sweat broke out on the back of Penny’s neck. She turned to him. “I was planning on leaving.” Torn between the entire truth and merely defending Penelope (and her own) honor, she opted not to come clean because she didn’t want to give Genevieve the satisfaction or more ammunition.
“Why? So, you could pawn off my necklace and make a getaway? After your mother’s death, there was debt and your family lost a lot of its holdings. It’s not hard to imagine you’d get desperate and do something like this.” Genevieve put her hand on her hip and lifted her chin haughtily.
Penny, embodying the girl the queen described and her mother before her, stepped in front of Genevieve and squared her shoulders. She tapped her chin. “Whose family is in financial trouble? Who’s getting desperate?”
“Are you suggesting something?” Genevieve’s words were barbed.
“I’m suggesting you examine your motives for the potential marriage with the prince.” She was about to say more about the call she overheard but the queen swept around the corner.
She wore a fitted cream jacket and skirt. Even in the hallway, she had the regal bearing of someone important. “What’s all this hubbub? It sounded like a bunch of cats mewling.” She turned to Genevieve in her dressing gown and slippers. “It’s late afternoon, why aren’t you dressed?”
She pressed her hands to her cheeks. “Your Majesty, I have been in a state all day. Early this morning, I discovered a priceless heirloom was missing from my suite.”
“Oh, yes?” the queen asked, aghast.
“It was my great, great aunt Ruth’s necklace. My most prized possession.”
“Genevieve, if that was the case, you should’ve had your lady’s maid put it in the palace safe.
You know that.”
“But I trusted everyone here.”
“You can never be too careful.”
“Exactly. We conducted a thorough search of the palace and discovered it in Penelope’s suite.”
“Is that so?” The queen’s features remained smooth, impassive as she turned to Penny.
“Your Majesty, you have my word that I didn’t take it.” Even so, her cheeks blistered.
“Lies.” Genevieve stomped her foot.
Penny almost thought the queen stopped from rolling her eyes. “There is no sense standing in the hallway bickering. Please bring me to where you discovered the necklace. We can retrace our steps. Perhaps this is a misunderstanding and it’ll become clear.” The queen’s word was final.
Winston led the way to Penny’s suite. She trailed behind, overcome with guilt but not for the reasons they’d expect.
When they stepped inside, Genevieve pointed to the closet then crossed her arms in front of her chest. As everyone filed past, her lips twisted into a grim smile of satisfaction at Penny’s obvious alarm.
The queen, Winston, Oliver, and Penny stood inside the closet, glancing around.
“Seems like an unusual place to hide a stolen item.” Oliver’s words were flat though and he didn’t look at Penny.
“Yes, it’s rather obvious. I would’ve stuffed it under my mattress.” The queen held up a hand. “Not that I’d steal, mind you.”
“It was in that shoe,” Genevieve pointed to the pair of boots Penny wore when she’d arrived.
Just then, Addie rushed in, giving Genevieve a wide berth as though she knew the royal was dangerous. “Miss, I’m terribly sorry. I tried to tell them you wouldn’t do such a thing. That you didn’t. But—”
She stopped abruptly in front of the table holding all of the jewelry the queen had loaned Penelope. She picked up a feather. She turned slowly toward Genevieve. “The housekeepers have been finding these all over the palace.”
Oliver’s and Winston’s gazes floated toward Genevieve then down to her slippers.
Genevieve rolled her eyes. “I can’t help it.”
“Did you plant the necklace?” Oliver asked. “To make Penelope look guilty?”
