“Now I mix this into the flour. Like this.” He took up his fork again and mixed the sides of the flour well slowly into the eggs. Miss Arlen came closer to peer over his arm, and for a moment the scent of flour mingled with something else—something that was uniquely the woman beside him. Lavender and citrus, perhaps. Something sweet and sharp. Bright. Like her.
He forced himself to speak, to describe what he was doing. “Once the flour and egg has joined to form a dough, we switch to using our hands.”
“Your hands?” She sounded confused. “Why?”
“It must be kneaded, similar to bread.”
“Oh.”
“Would you like to try?” he offered, laying the fork down and gesturing to the lump of dough. “It is not difficult. I did this part with my mother, when I was a child.”
Miss Arlen’s eager expression returned. “If a child can do it, I suppose I could make an attempt.” She waited for him to move aside, then held her hands over the dough somewhat uncertainly. “All right. I just—put my hands in it?”
“On it. You are mixing the dough with your hands. Working it, as you would clay. You have used clay before?”
“A long time ago. It is not my favorite artistic medium.” She sunk her hands into the dough and squeezed it together, then apart, then made a face when it stuck to her. “Oh dear. It gets everywhere, doesn’t it?”
“It shouldn’t.” He frowned at the long stringy bits of dough. “It is too wet.”
A quiet cough from behind made him glance over his shoulder. Gerry the kitchen boy turned red. “If you please, my lord. Adding more flour might help?”
Ah yes. A little more flour.
He took some from the bag with his still clean hands and sprinkled it over the dough, then when Miss Arlen put her hands upon it again, rolling and turning the dough on the table as she would work to soften clay, he leaned around her to add a little more.
His chest brushed against her shoulder, and something in his stomach twisted; heat poured into his chest where the contact had occurred.
He hastily stepped back. “See. Not so difficult.” That time, his voice sounded strangled.
Miss Arlen seemed too intent upon her kneading to notice. “How long do we do this?”
“Until it is smooth and stretches easily. Do you wish me to take a turn at it?”
She nodded and stepped away, holding her hands away from her sides with a wrinkled nose. “Dear me. I have flour up to my elbows.” She sniffed and used the back of her wrist to brush a lock of chestnut colored hair away from her face. It had looked lovely, loose and brushing against her cheek, but apparently had become a nuisance.
Luca focused on the dough, rolling it this way and that, smoothing it into a ball and beginning the process over again.
“How long does this usually take?” The English woman leaned her hip against the side of the table, folding her arms carefully and keeping her eyes on his work.
“Truthfully, I do not know.” He kept at the work, his mind stretching backward to his mother at the table while their kitchen servants chopped tomatoes and peppers nearby. “I have no way of knowing, except that it will feel right.”
“Oh.” She kept watching, though he saw from the corner of his eye that her expression had turned thoughtful. “This is not as simple as I expected it would be. Perhaps I shouldn’t have encouraged you to undertake this much work.”
“I am glad you did.” The moment he said the words, he knew he meant them. He studied that thought, the feeling of being in the right place at the right moment. “This is the closest to home I have felt in a long time. The reminder is good for me, I think.”
It was also one of the things about home he could think upon without conflicting thoughts or worry. The letters he had received about the issues at home—the king’s lack of care for the poorer subjects, the malcontent stirred by the seditious leaders of secret societies—caused him great concern. And he could do almost nothing, as far from home as he was.
The quiet settled around them, the only sounds coming from the kitchen through the doorway. A buzz of conversation, the occasional clang of a pan or laughter breaking free from the steady thrum of whatever work went on in the larger room.
The smell of the dough, the warmth in the room, made peace fall upon Luca’s shoulders rather like his mother’s shawl had on cold winter nights.
“There,” he finally said. “This is how it should feel.” He took Miss Arlen’s hand and put it upon the top of the dough. “See? It is smooth, and when you touch it—leaving a dent—it springs back. Like the best of feather pillows.”
She concentrated on the dough, then lifted her gaze. Her hand was still beneath his. “I see what you mean.”
Luca swallowed and forced a smile, pulling his hand away. “Now we cover it and let it rest.”
“Let it rest?” she asked, blinking at him. “When we are the ones doing all the work?”
That pulled a genuine laugh from him—the first he had released in some time. “I think I said the same thing when I was a child.” He brushed his hands on his apron, then picked up a cloth and covered the dough. “We make it comfortable and let it rest. Then, in half an hour or so, we roll and cut the dough.”
“Oh.” She stepped back, brushing her hands quickly up and down her apron, leaving only bits of flour behind. She pushed her hair back again, leaving a streak of white across her cheek. “What do we do while we wait?”
“We clean.” He gestured to the table.
“I can do that, my lord,” Gerry offered happily. “And fetch you refreshment for your wait.”
Luca looked to the boy, seeing the child appeared perfectly willing to perform such duties. “That would be best, I think. Go on, Gerry.”
The boy disappeared out of the room again, and Miss Arlen lowered herself to the bench further down the table. He joined her, his gaze straying to the flour on her cheek.
“What shall we discuss for ‘half an hour or so’?” she asked, her posture the same as it was in the duke’s parlor and duchess’s salon. The white-dusted apron and flour lingering on her skin made that strict adherence to propriety endearing. Could she know what a picture she made, so lovely and candid?
Folding his arms, Luca directed his gaze to the row of cups upon a shelf. The servants dined here, their meal schedules whatever made their work for everyone upstairs more convenient. Bruno had taken his meals here, too, and said everyone had treated him with kindness. He had a measure of importance as the valet of an ambassador that meant his position was respected, too.
“Have you ever been in this room before?” he asked.
“When the castle was first opened to the family, I walked through every room.” Emma smiled, her eyes growing distant. “We played hide and seek many, many times. I even got lost those first weeks. But I cannot think I have come down here more than a handful of times since leaving the schoolroom. And not much before that, either. The castle is vast, and there are other places I am meant to be.”
“Such as the library,” he said, thinking of finding her curled up in one of the large chairs, book in hand. “Which room is your favorite?”
“I cannot say. So many are magnificent, and there are those where I am most comfortable. I think my favorite rooms are those with my favorite people in them, usually. Places where I can read or speak with others on the things that matter most. The library, the chapel, and the duchess’s private parlor, perhaps.” She looked around, taking in all the same details he had, most likely. Her curious gaze finally met his again, and her mouth tilted up on one side. “I thrive on excellent conversation, whether it be about books or matters of state.”
“Then we will discuss those things, so perhaps this will be one of your favorite rooms.” Something about the way she laughed made his breath catch, and then she started talking about a book she had read, not giving him a chance to think upon the strangeness of the two of them being together.
Gerry returned with a platter of fruits and tea c
akes, and cups of lemonade. The arrangement was haphazard enough that the boy had to have done it all himself, but Miss Arlen thanked him as though she had been presented with a perfect array of desserts. Then they talked more while the boy tidied their mess, leaving the dough alone.
When enough time had passed, Luca reluctantly left his seat on the bench and took up a knife. He divided the pasta into smaller portions, setting half of the blocks of dough in front of Miss Arlen.
“Gerry, will you start a pot of water boiling for us, please?”
“Yes, my lord.” The boy took off again, eager to help.
Luca sprinkled flour over his side of the table and tasked Miss Arlen to do the same. Then they worked the dough flat with the rolling pins Gerry had brought back with him before Luca showed her how to cut the noodles into strips for the pot.
“We could dry them, of course,” he explained, carefully forming loose balls of noodles on a tray. “But fresh is much better, and we will eat them tonight.”
“I cannot believe it,” she said, her voice a mixture of awe and amusement. “I have never made any of the food I have eaten before. The closest I have come is buttering my own bread or eating strawberries I’ve picked.” She stepped back from the finished work, looking at the table in front of them while wearing a look of such satisfaction that Luca’s heart warmed toward her.
This was what his mother said good food did for people. It brought them closer together. He nudged Miss Arlen with one elbow—the only part of his arm or hand not covered in flour. “You did very well. Everything looks edible, at least.”
She nudged him back and laughed. “Edible will make me happy enough. I trust if we made any mistakes, Monsieur Dupont will correct them with some sort of special sauce or spice.”
They used damp towels to brush off their arms and clean their hands. Gerry took the tray and left while Luca untied his apron and rolled his sleeves down. “Thank you for your help and encouragement.”
“You are most welcome, my lord. I enjoyed myself immensely.”
Luca spoke without stopping to consider what he said. “Please, call me Luca. We have made pasta together. That makes us good friends now.”
She hesitated, her hands at her back to untie her apron and her eyes upon his face. “Luca. I had nearly forgotten your given name.”
He picked up his coat and slid his arms into it, avoiding her gaze when he said, “I did not forget yours, Emma.” He had written it down in his book immediately after meeting her, beneath his initial thoughts on meeting Lady Josephine.
He froze mid-motion, his coat not quite settled on his shoulders. He had not thought of Lady Josephine even once since Emma Arlen had entered the kitchen, wearing her bright smile and embroidered apron with the air of one going on a delightful adventure rather than seeing to a ridiculous guest.
“Luca. It’s a very nice name.” She bundled up her apron, not quite looking at him. “I am grateful you consider us good friends. One can never have too many of those.”
He relaxed and looked at her, that warmth in his chest spreading outward. “No. I suppose not.” His eyes lingered on the smudge of white across her cheek. “And as your friend, I cannot let you go about looking like this. You have flour on your cheek.” He held his hand up, nearly touching her face. “May I?”
Her eyes, so large and deep, glittering up at him, made everything feel softer. More peaceful.
She nodded silently and lifted her chin, granting him better access as his thumb passed gently over the streak of flour, rubbing it away. His fingers cupped her jaw, her skin warm against his touch.
Emma’s lips parted, then her lashes lowered as she leaned toward him. Luca leaned closer, a word on his lips—her name. “Emma, I—”
A scuff in the doorway sent him into a retreat, his hand gliding through his hair as though it had not lingered upon the softest skin he had ever felt.
“Is there anything else, my lord? Miss Arlen?” the boy asked, bouncing on his heels. “The cook has the pasta in hand, he says.”
Emma Arlen walked by the boy, not looking back. “I think we are finished here, Gerry. Thank you for all your help.” She made it to the door, and just before Luca could curse himself for a fool, she looked over her shoulder at him and smiled. “Thank you for a wonderful experience, Luca.”
Then she was through the door, out of his sight, and Luca’s universe burned more brightly.
Chapter Fourteen
More than a week had passed since working with Luca in the kitchen, and Emma still could not stop thinking about that afternoon. Even on her morning ride with Josephine, dressed against the cold, her cheeks stinging from the wind, she remembered exactly how it had felt the moment he’d touched her.
He had left with the duke the next day to visit a friend at a hunting lodge, along with several other men, and he would not return for another day or two. Despite him being out of her sight, far away from the castle, Emma’s thoughts lingered on their time together.
Josephine circled her mare back to meet Emma on the path. “You are morose today, Emma,” she accused. “What weighty matters are spoiling the fun of a morning ride?”
Emma stuck her tongue out at Josephine. “I am not morose. Only thoughtful.”
“Too thoughtful. One would almost think you are plotting something devious. I know Grandmother was severe upon your pianoforte practice yesterday, but we needn’t plan her demise just yet, if that is what you are thinking of.” Josephine grinned jauntily and brought her horse to ride evenly with Emma.
“I have never planned anyone’s demise, thank you very much. I am far too gentle a soul for that. I would rather keep the peace than hire assassins.” Emma sniffed disdainfully. “Horrible dirty work, that. I’ll leave it to you.”
“I cannot even think how one would do such a thing, though I imagine you’ve read about it somewhere.” The duke’s daughter looked over her shoulder where a groom followed behind them, several horse-lengths back and incapable of listening as long as they kept their voices low. “Speaking of reading and plots, I think I am ready to share my secret with you.”
That made Emma drag her thoughts away from the absent ambassador. “Your secret? The one you have kept more than a fortnight? That must be a new best for you, Josie.”
“Do not tease, or I will keep it from you even longer,” Josephine threatened, glaring at Emma with false heat. “Do you want to know where I have been going or not?”
“I want to know.” Her initial curiosity on the subject coupled with her wanting to banish Luca from her thoughts strongly motivated her enthusiasm.
“Excellent. A race back to the castle, then?” Josephine’s eyes glowed with the suggestion, and Emma readily agreed.
A quarter of an hour saw them back in the castle’s entrance hall, the groom having taken charge of their horses. The two of them hurried down corridors, giggling and whispering that they mustn’t be caught by the duchess or the dowager duchess. Not that either grand lady would do much to hinder their progress. Pretending they were performing mischief produced a heady feeling and recalled for both memories of their girlhood.
Emma followed Josephine down one of the corridors in the guest wing, which was quiet and empty at the moment, until Josephine stopped before a small door made to look like part of the wall. The only thing that gave the door away was the slightest seam in the wall. With eyebrows raised, Josephine pushed the door inward, and a mechanism on the inside made it rebound enough for her to catch the edge of the door and pull it open.
Confused, Emma put her hand on Josephine’s arm. “This is a broom cupboard. We used to hide in it when we played hide and seek with Andrew.”
And as the door swung open, it appeared the cupboard still held only a rack of brooms, mops, and feather-dusters. A shelf at the rear likewise had a bucket and folded linen cloths for cleaning and polishing furniture.
The closet was wide enough that both women could stand inside, shoulder-to-shoulder, and deep enough to do the same.
> “I know what it is. But what it is hiding is more fascinating. Look.” Josephine entered the cupboard, holding her long riding skirts out of the way, and reached beneath the tall shelf bearing the cleaning equipment.
Emma did not see any mechanism, but the back of the closet suddenly vanished, sliding into the wall. She gasped and came into the closet, closing the door behind her. Light poured in from the new doorway, making it easy enough to see Josephine’s broad grin.
“I found it quite by accident. I ducked in here to hide from your tiresome cousin, and I saw the little rod that controls the door slide. I’m not certain why it’s here—though of course Mama would have put it in her designs.”
There were a few secret rooms in the castle, but each was only a secret to the rest of the world. The duke even had a study, deep within the center of the castle and accessible only through servants’ halls, where secretive meetings had taken place in the years England was at war. There was a room where the children were taught to hide if they heard their parents say a particular word, indicating their lives were in danger. There was a pathway out of the castle the family could access through a door in the old nursery, and governesses and nurses alike had been taught how to protect children who would be excellent targets for those wanting to ransom them for fortunes or strike out at the duke.
“Being a duke’s daughter is all very well and good,” Josephine had said once, “until you think of all the horrid things other people want to do to you.”
Emma followed Josephine up a winding staircase made of stone, too narrow for them to walk together, though not so tight a fit as to make Emma uncomfortable. Light streamed in from fogged glass every few feet, and Emma realized suddenly where they were.
“This is the false tower!” she exclaimed.
Josephine hushed her. “At the rear of the castle, yes. It turns out that it is not false.” She sighed happily when she reached the landing. “Here we are.”
A Companion for the Count: A Regency Romance Page 14
