Dinner had been more stilted since they dined in the presence of the Dragon. After a few questions about Frederick’s studies, however, the dowager left her to eat in peace, discussing plans for the upcoming season with Emmeline. Mother and daughter were in the midst of preparations for hosting a ball at their London home in a few weeks. Eliza had to admit, she desperately wanted to go to London. No matter the vast size of Clarehaven, cabin fever had set in big time.
If only she’d had a hamburger on her plate, instead of fish, which she’d never cared for. She longed for a salad, instead of over-boiled vegetables. Guess fresh greens are hard to come by this time of year.
The seasonality of foods was something Eliza had never thought about. Every grocery store in Charlottesville offered great varieties of fresh produce any time of year. To not have lettuce or strawberries because they were out of season was a foreign concept.
Of course, her local-food-crazy friends would love this era—everything Eliza ate probably came from within five miles, if not right here on the estate. But, as she lay in bed later, mulling over the day, how she wished for pizza. Or good old-fashioned apple pie. Or even just a fresh orange.
Her stomach rumbled. One positive thing about these Regency foods to which she wasn’t accustomed; she was losing weight. The dress she’d worn the night she arrived was noticeably looser in the bust, much to her delight. She’d never be as tall and waifish as, say, Grace, but it was nice to feel less like a stuffed sausage in her borrowed gowns.
She fell asleep on that pleasing thought until her stomach—and her bladder—roused her. She was hungry. And now had to go to the bathroom.
Dang, she missed modern conveniences. The chamber pot grossed her out—both using it and knowing someone had to clean it. Who knew how much a good old-fashioned toilet and toilet paper would mean to her? And don’t even get me started on how much I long for a hot shower, to be able to stand under the streaming water for fifteen, twenty, thirty minutes, soaking in the heat and the relaxation!
Huffing, she rolled over again, then gave up and got up to use the pot.
Her stomach growled. Turtle was almost sounding good, with how hungry she was.
What time was it? She had no idea. No light peeked in around the edges of the window coverings, but the fire had died down to smoldering coals. Early morning, perhaps.
Maybe there was something in the kitchen she could mooch.
She pulled the heavy robe on over her chemise, and left her room, making her way down as quietly as possible to where she thought the kitchens were. After more than one wrong turn, she eventually found herself in a large room, filled with pots, pans, and people. Wow, they’re up early. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb anyone.”
A large, ruddy-cheeked woman hurried over. “Come in, come in, lassie.” A Scottish burr laced her speech. “I’m Rowena. Ye must be Mrs. James, the American,” she said, more to herself than Eliza, apparently, as she kept talking without pausing to wait for an answer. “We’re so happy the little laird’s been eatin’ more o’ his dinners since ye’ve come, lassie. He needs fattenin’ up.”
Eliza couldn’t argue with that. Frederick was still painfully thin, but he’d regained his appetite and had tucked away quite a bit of food in the past week or so.
“Thank you,” Eliza said, unsure if an answer was expected. “I was, um, wondering if I might find something to eat?”
“Of course, my lady! The bread be rising fer baking an’ not quite ready yet, but let’s see. I have some cheese, an’ a few cherry tarts fresh out o’ the oven.”
“That sounds delicious.” Cherry tarts? They had cherry tarts? Had they served those before and she’d missed it?
“The dowager, she likes me not ta make too many sweets; doesn’t want her daughters leaning toward fat, but I say there be nothin’ better in the world than a properly made cherry tart. His Grace and Lord Chance agree, so I bake ‘em fer them. And extras fer meself.” She chuckled, patting her large belly.
The cook indicated a stool and Eliza sat down gratefully. “Thank you,” she said again.
Rowena beamed as she set a plate of cheese and tarts in front of Eliza. “How nice to hear a bit o’ gratitude.”
Eliza took a bite of the tart. The light crust melted in her mouth, and the mix of cherry and sugar exploded on her tongue. She wanted to kiss the cook, literally. It was delicious. Beyond delicious. Oh, how she’d missed sugar. “Rowena!” she exclaimed. “These are awesome!”
“Awe-some? That is no’ an expression I’ve heard applied ta food,” Rowena said, “but I’m hoping ‘twere a compliment.”
“A compliment indeed!” Eliza took another bite. Oh my God, these are insanely good.
“They be His Grace’s favorite, too,” the cook confided. “Have been since he were a wee lad.”
It hardly seemed possible Deveric was ever that small.
Had he been? She stopped chewing. If Cat had created Deveric for her, had he had an actual childhood, or had he sprung forth fully formed as an adult, like Athena from Zeus? Did Cat truly create Deveric, his family, the people around her, from nothing, or was it possible she’d somehow tapped into people who already existed?
Eliza’s head spun from trying to figure out the ramifications of her friend’s gift. It was incomprehensible to fully grasp how this people-creating power worked, or that time-travel was possible, and yet here she sat in a nineteenth-century kitchen, eating cheese and tarts, surrounded by strange utensils for which she didn’t know the use, listening to the cook and watching kitchen maids prep food for the upcoming day.
She bit into another tart. She’d have to be careful, or she’d eat all of them she could find.
“It’s nice ta see a lady with an appetite,” Cook said as she bustled about, slamming a slab of dough onto a board and kneading it with her large, beefy hands. “Would you like a cup o’ chocolate?”
“Oh, that would be heavenly. Could you add a bit of sugar to it, as well?”
“Indeed. Moira?”
A small, dark-haired maid nodded, setting down the knife with which she’d been chopping potatoes. Taking what looked like a brown bar of soap, she chopped it into small bits then added the bits to a pot that rather resembled a modern coffee pot. Pouring in some milk, she then held the pot over the fire, occasionally stirring the mixture. Removing the pot from the heat after a few minutes, Moira added sugar the cook had shaved off of a cone and mixed it in with a spoon. She poured out the chocolate into a china mug another maid had brought over and set it in front of Eliza with a smile.
Holy cow, that’s labor-intensive. Nothing like popping milk in the microwave and adding hot chocolate mix. Remorse hit her for making the women go to so much effort when they were already busy. On the other hand, the chocolate was delicious.
“Thank you. You all are so very kind. Would you mind if I spent time here in the kitchens when I can? I’d be glad to help out if you’d like.” Not that she knew a thing about cooking in a nineteenth-century kitchen, but a girl could learn, right?
Rowena gave her a wink. “Ye be more than welcome, lassie, but I don’t know that His Grace, or Her Grace, would approve.”
“I’ll take full responsibility if there’s an issue. I like it here. It’s warm!”
The women grinned at each other. “Then ye be most welcome anytime,” Rowena affirmed.
Eliza munched on another tart, relishing the warmth of the fire as much as the food before her, a bit uncomfortable that she was relaxing while they worked. Not uncomfortable enough to leave, though.
A door on the other side of the room whipped open. Eliza dropped her tart in surprise when a deep voice echoed through the kitchen. “Rowena, have you got any of those cherry tarts for me?”
Chapter 29
Deveric strode through the door, bundled up in a form-fitting coat, cheeks red with cold. He was taking off his gloves when he spied Eliza and stopped mid-stride.
“What are you doing here?” He eyed her up and
down.
“And what are you wearing?” His tone indicated disapproval.
Eliza pulled the robe more tightly across her body. Although, really, the robe was thick, and in her opinion, the chemise she wore underneath was practically the same as a day dress—not exactly a Victoria’s Secret type garment. Nobody could see anything. So why was he freaking out? And why was he here, anyway, so early in the morning, looking so damn luscious?
Where have you been? she wanted to chide, even as her eyes drank him in. Cat couldn’t have done a better job of creating the perfect man for her, eye candy-wise, at least. The stubble gracing his face rendered him a little less perfect and a whole lot sexier to Eliza. She wanted to run her fingers over his chin, touch his upper lip, slide her hands across his cheeks.
She wanted to devour him.
His eyes fixated on her, burning into her, and her cheeks grew warm. What would he do if I walked over there and kissed him? At that thought, her ears, and other parts, tingled, and she shifted uncomfortably on the stool.
“I couldn’t sleep.”
He didn’t say anything, just crossed the room and stood right in front of her, appraising her. He didn’t seem to notice the cook and all the other maids had stopped working and were watching this exchange in fascination.
Eliza did.
She looked down at her lap. This would be so much better if they were in private. She didn’t like being the morning’s entertainment. On the other hand, Deveric was here. In front of her. And looking at her as if she were the cherry tart he’d asked for.
He reached out a hand, smoothing it over the side of her lip. Her skin came alive, shock reverberating through her at his touch.
“You’ve been sampling Rowena’s tarts, I see,” he said, showing her the tip of his finger, on which the crumb he’d wiped off her face rested. His green eyes smoldered as they bore into hers.
Eliza’s mouth dropped open, and from the stirring in the room, she could tell Deveric’s actions startled the servants, too. It was a surprisingly intimate touch, here in the kitchen.
“Yes, they are exquisite. I’m afraid I’ve eaten two or three.” Idiot! Why are you confessing how much you’ve eaten? Do you want to draw attention to the fact that you’re not a dainty little thing like his sisters?
“Have another. You’ve grown too thin.” He frowned, scanning her up and down. “Have you not been eating?”
Eliza gaped at him. Too thin? I’ve never been accused of being too thin!
“I’m not as accustomed to some of your dishes,” she managed to get out, glancing at Rowena guiltily. “Not that everything hasn’t been wonderful,” she assured the cook. “I’m just used to other kinds of food.”
Rowena looked unsure whether she should say anything. At Deveric’s glower, she quickly turned back to her bread dough.
“I’m sure if you let us know what you want, Rowena can make it for you,” he said, his voice gruff. Or was that husky? His eyes devoured her, and she nearly forgot to breathe.
I want a hamburger. Pizza. Chocolate chip cookies! And you.
She sat up straighter, letting the robe fall open. “I’m fine, Your Grace, but I thank you for your concern.” She put her shoulders back, bringing her breasts forward. Brazen hussy, her mind screamed. But she’d better start pressing her advantage if she were going to get anywhere with this man, and her advantage was her boobs.
Sure enough, his eyes drifted down. Not much to see through these layers of fabric, but at least I’ve got his attention. Moira moved within her field of vision, momentarily distracting her. The maid’s eyes bulged, reminding Eliza they were not alone. Her shoulders shrank down again. She wasn’t used to playing the seductress, much less with an audience.
“Shall I escort you back to your room, Mrs. James?” Deveric asked.
Eliza took a quick drink of cocoa to mask her astonishment. Moira dropped a pan.
“Uh, what?”
“There are matters we need to discuss,” he said, his voice all business. “And surely you need more sleep.”
“Um, okay.” She stood up. He’d told her himself it was unacceptable for a man to take her to her bedroom, but then again, this wasn’t any man. This was Deveric. This was the Duke of Claremont. And this was his home. If he wanted to escort her to his bedroom, she didn’t think the servants would say a thing. Truth be told, the way her body was shaking, her pulse racing, her skin tingling, there was no place she’d rather be but in bed with him. Right now.
The lust setting her aflame both astounded and thrilled her. It wasn’t as if she’d become asexual after Greg had died, of course. She’d had feelings and desires, especially knowing what lovemaking was like. But she’d stuffed them down. Though body consciousness admittedly played a part, she’d realized she didn’t want to be intimate with anyone she didn’t love enough to be with forever.
She was old-fashioned, to say the least, for her era. Magazines, movies and television shows intimated something was wrong with a person if they weren’t having sex every night. In multiple positions. Maybe with multiple partners. Even many of her girlfriends had no problem with one-night stands, or at least passionate short-term relationships. That didn’t bother Eliza. It just wasn’t for her.
But looking at Deveric right now, with his windblown hair and that damn stubble across his jaw, that tight-fitting coat and those breeches hugging his thighs, the thoughts filling Eliza’s brain were anything but pure, anything but patient. But I plan on marrying him, even if he doesn’t know it. That makes it okay, right?
Her eyes locked with his, the electricity pulsing between them so powerful as to almost be painful. With great effort, she pulled herself together, securing her robe around her before walking ahead of him to the door, aware with every fiber of her being of the magnificent male at her back.
Deveric put his hand at her waist as they walked as if politely guiding her in the right direction. Ha! He wanted to push her up against the wall and capture those sugar-sweet lips with his, wanted to wipe the taste of those cherry tarts from her memory and replace it with only memories of him, his mouth, his hands, his...
His body had betrayed him the minute he’d walked into the kitchen. He’d used every ounce of willpower he had—and thoughts, however brief, of his mother—to keep his desire from making itself obvious to everyone in the room.
His visceral reaction to her shook him to the core. One minute back in Eliza’s presence and he wanted to pull off that robe, rip off what lay underneath. He wanted to spread her across the kitchen workspace where Rowena kneaded bread, and knead Eliza’s body in similar ways, wanted to caress her flesh, molding it beneath his fingers, wanted to pound into her as the cook’s fists had pounded into the dough.
Desire raged through his veins as he passed through the kitchen door after her, her robe swaying back and forth over that delectably round derriere. Once they’d cleared the doorway and moved into a hallway farther off, he stopped.
“What do you do to me, Eliza James?” he murmured, yanking her to him before his lips swooped down over hers, his tongue invading her mouth as the pent-up passion of the last few weeks exploded through him. He lifted his lips momentarily, stunned and ashamed at his own actions, his own ferocity, hoping he hadn’t hurt her, but he had no opportunity to think beyond that, as she wound her arms up around his neck, running her fingers through his hair and pulling his head back down to hers.
He wanted to weep in relief. Her lips moved as eagerly over his as his on hers, and he rejoiced in the satisfied sounds she made. She ran her fingers across his cheeks, and then moved her hand down, sliding it over his neck, running it across his chest and around to his back. The other hand she kept laced through his hair, keeping his face locked with hers, but he wasn’t about to complain.
He moved his hand down, as well, fumbling through the open robe, desperate to reach her body. His torso pressed hers against the wall and he knew she could feel him, hard, pressing into her. But she didn’t retreat. She arched into
him, returning his kiss, running her tongue over his lips and seeking entry inside.
He reveled in it, the desire this befuddling American exhibited. His fingers traced their way up over a breast, joy running through him as he took an entire handful in his grasp at last. He loved those breasts, the fullness of them. He wanted to bury himself in them and luxuriate in all of her flesh. Sliding his fingers across her clothed nipple, he heard her gasp as it hardened under his touch.
He lifted one of her legs, urging her to wrap it around him so that he could press more closely into her. She readily complied. His hips matched the rhythm of their mouths, an exquisite back and forth that had both of them murmuring small sounds of pleasure into each other. He reached for the buttons on her chemise, grateful they were in front, and had just slipped the second one out of its hole when a gasp roused him from his lustful fantasies.
Suddenly Eliza was pushing against him, and he looked at her, eyes hooded, momentarily confused by her switch in attitude, until he followed her wide-eyed gaze to his mother standing in the hallway, cheeks white and lips pinched as she glared at the two of them.
He instinctively moved in front of Eliza, as if to shield her from his mother’s attack, realizing belatedly that gave his mother an ample view of just how much he’d been enjoying the previous moments. Not that it lasted long; he shriveled under her baleful gaze.
“Claremont,” she barked, all starch and rage. “I expect better of you. One does not couple in a public hallway. And you. Trollop,” she fumed, vehemence radiating from her as she addressed Eliza. “Pack your bags. No woman of loose morals shall remain under my roof.”
The Magic of Love Series Page 49
