Secret Desires of a Gentleman

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  Afterward, she put on fresh undergarments and sat down before her dressing table to comb out her damp hair. It was a long process, for her hair was thick, unruly and came to her waist, and as she untangled the strands, her mind inevitably drifted back to what had been preoccupying her for days and days.

  Why did that kiss fascinate her so? It wasn’t as if she’d never been kissed before. Lawrence had been the first, of course. She smiled a little at the memory. What a naive, awkward thing it had been—a quick, timid press of lips behind the hedgerows when they were fifteen. Another kiss in the rose arbor after they’d agreed to elope, less awkward than the first—warm, tender, quite sweet, really—but still far too short to get one stirred up. And during the eleven years she’d lived at Little Russell Street, she’d been fortunate enough to have several genuine suitors, and unfortunate enough to wait tables and work the kitchen with a few lecherous footmen whose faces she’d had to slap. But not a single man who’d ever kissed her made her feel as if she were on fire.

  She set aside the comb and plunked her elbows on the dressing table, staring ruefully at her reflection. Of all the men in the world, why did it have to be Phillip whose kiss was so exciting?

  Maria reached for her comb. She finished untangling the long strands of her hair, then wove them into a fat, single braid. Holding the ends in one hand, she pulled open the drawer of her dressing table with the other, and reached for a strip of scrap muslin to tie the braid. But when her eye caught on a ribbon of pale blue silk, she hesitated. It was a pretty falderal, to be sure, but it would be absurd to wear it. Why, it’d be dirty after half an hour down in the bakery. On the other hand, she so seldom wore anything pretty nowadays.

  She remembered her father, how he’d always wanted her to be a lady, to wear pretty things and find a husband and occupy her time with ladylike pursuits. He’d wanted her to be like her mother, when what she’d always wanted was to be a great chef like him. Maria stared at the strip of blue silk and wavered, and then, for no practical reason whatsoever, she pulled the ribbon out of the drawer and used it to tie the end of her braid.

  She rose from her dressing table and started toward the bed, thinking to have that nap, but as she passed the window, she paused to take a peek between the curtains and changed her mind. The sun was shining, and she decided a stroll in the sun sounded much more refreshing than a nap.

  She donned a crisp, clean shirtwaist and a skirt of brown serge, then pulled on her boots and tightened the laces. She opened one of the French doors and stepped out onto her balcony.

  This was just what she needed. The sun was warm on her face, but the breeze felt cool and invigorating on her damp hair. She walked to the rail and leaned against the balustrade, noticing that on the balcony across the way, the occupants of the house had begun an herb garden of sorts. She could see pots of thyme, sage, and tarragon.

  She might do that, she thought. Rosemary and chives for her herb breads, angelica, lavender, lemon verbena and violets for some of the confections. It would be nice to have her own supply. She could have cases installed in one or two of her windows so she could bring the pots indoors in winter.

  A door slammed to her left, breaking into these horticultural speculations. Maria turned her head, and almost groaned at the sight of the very man who’d been on her mind for over a week, the man she was trying so hard to forget. He didn’t seem to see her, for he walked straight toward the balustrade in front of him, pulling out a cigar from his jacket pocket as he went. But just before reaching the rail, he glanced sideways, saw her, and came to a halt.

  Their eyes met, and her stomach dipped with a strange, quivering sensation. His lashes lowered, and the moment she realized he was looking at her mouth, all the excitement of that kiss came rushing back to torment her again. She almost reached up to touch her tingling lips, but caught herself just in time and shoved her hands into her skirt pockets.

  Heaven help her, she realized in horror, she was nervous. It was ridiculous, but at this moment, she felt awkward and uncertain, as if she were a green girl of fifteen rather than a fully mature woman of nearly thirty.

  Was he nervous? She scanned his face, searching for any sign of it, but there was none. She couldn’t begin to guess what he was thinking, but only the most self-deluded fool would think he looked happy to see her.

  “Forgive me,” he said with a stiff bow. “I did not mean to intrude upon your privacy.”

  He turned as if to leave, but before he could walk away, she spoke.

  “Don’t go,” she called after him, and the moment she said it, she wanted to bite her tongue off. Despite that kiss, it was plain as a pikestaff that he didn’t want to be anywhere near her. And it wasn’t as if she wanted to be near him. She’d been trying to forget about him. And anyway, if he stayed, what on earth were they going to say to each other? “That is,” she added in a desperate attempt to retreat to safer ground as he paused and turned back around, “you don’t have to leave because of me, my lord. Surely, we can share a balcony in a civil fashion.”

  “One might hope so,” he answered, but though he sounded a bit doubtful on that point, he did not depart. He stood there for what seemed an eternity, and then he began walking toward her.

  Maria looked away. She struggled to pretend a dignified indifference as he approached, but by the time he reached her side, her heart was pounding so loud in her chest, she could almost hear it. What on earth was wrong with her?

  He halted on the other side of the short wall that separated them and turned to stare at the balconies of the terrace houses opposite, but it was several more moments before he spoke. “Fine day.”

  “Yes,” she agreed at once, latching onto the subject with gratitude. “The sun is shining.”

  The inanity of that comment made her wince, but she could feel his gaze on her, and she forced herself to look at him. “It’s nice to have a bit of sunshine,” she added, and managed a smile.

  “Yes, indeed,” he agreed, gave her a fleeting smile in return, then turned his attention to the view.

  She did the same, but when he stirred beside her, she cast another glance at him to find that he was tucking his cigar into the breast pocket of his jacket.

  “Didn’t you come out here to smoke?” she asked in surprise.

  “Yes.”

  “Then why are you putting your cigar away? I don’t mind if you smoke.”

  “I do. Smoking in front of a lady is not done. An old-fashioned notion, I know.” He looked at her again and lifted his chin a notch. “Laugh if you like.”

  “I shan’t laugh.” At those words, she saw a flash of relief in his face. This rare sign of vulnerability disarmed her, for it was unlike Phillip to give any clue as to his inner feelings. “It’s a very thoughtful gesture,” she said, bemused. “Thank you.”

  “Not at all.” He looked away, and that brief moment of vulnerability was gone. “There’s a good, strong breeze today,” he said, reverting to their former topic.

  She murmured a suitable reply, and although she was certain polite small talk was the appropriate thing to do under these circumstances, she felt vaguely disappointed. This man had given her the most passionate, romantic kiss she’d ever had, and she couldn’t help feeling a bit let down that the next time she saw him, they were talking about the weather.

  They were talking about the weather. Perfect. A pleasant, safe topic. Phillip felt some of his tension ease away. Discussions of that sort, even with her, were not likely to be particularly arousing.

  “A good breeze,” he felt compelled to add, “helps clear the air.”

  “True,” she agreed. “A most welcome change. The air in London is usually so foul.”

  Silence fell again, and it was clear another neutral topic was needed, but as he attempted to think of one, the scent of her floated past him on the breeze—that scent of vanilla and cinnamon that had been plaguing him for days. For God’s sake, he wondered with a hint of desperation, did the woman always have to smell like
dessert? He could feel his control slip a notch. He scrambled to regain it.

  “Preparations for the ball coming along?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes. We’re inundated with work at the moment, of course, but everything is proceeding smoothly.”

  “Excellent. No more third-oven disasters?” When she shook her head, he went on, “That’s rather a pity.”

  “How so?”

  “Those little chocolate and mint things were extraordinary.”

  She turned her head, and her smile hit him like a physical force. He sucked in his breath. The oven, he reminded himself. They were talking about the oven. He forced himself to speak again. “Do you want me to replace it? The oven, I mean. I will, if you wish it.”

  She considered that offer for a moment. “Thank you, but I don’t think that’s necessary. I rather think it’s good training for my apprentices to work with equipment that is less than perfect.”

  “Very sound. But if you change your mind and want me to replace it, let me know.”

  “I will.”

  She turned toward the balustrade, studying the view, and he started to do the same, but a flash of blue caught his attention, and he looked down just in time to see the ribbon that tied the end of her braid slip free and fall to the floor behind her. His mind flashed back fourteen years, to another hair ribbon she’d lost in this same way.

  “You’ve lost your ribbon,” he told her and leaned over the wall, bending down to retrieve the bit of silk before the wind could carry it away.

  “Thank you,” she said, taking it from his outstretched hand. “This is a bit like history repeating itself, isn’t it?” she asked as she tied the ribbon around the end of her hair.

  He tensed, striving to pretend he didn’t know what she was talking about. “History repeating itself?” he asked, pasting on a puzzled little smile.

  “The hair ribbon I lost all those years ago,” she reminded. “The pink one that belonged to my mother.”

  “Ah, yes.” He nodded as if enlightened. “The one with—ahem—daisies on it.”

  “Yes. My mother embroidered those daisies, which was why I was so upset when the ribbon went missing. Oh, how I wish I hadn’t lost it. She died when I was six, you see, and that ribbon was one of the few things I had of hers. Papa gave most of her things away when she died.”

  He felt a glimmer of guilt and forced himself to speak. “We have something in common, Miss Martingale. My mother also died when I was six.”

  “I don’t remember my mother at all. Do you remember yours?”

  “Only vaguely. She used to sing to me, I believe. She died of cholera.”

  “My mother died in childbirth. My father was devastated. He always wanted me to be like her. That’s why he saved his wages so carefully and sent me to school. He wanted me to be refined and elegant, ladylike.”

  “But you preferred climbing trees and learning to play cricket?”

  “As you are well aware,” she said, laughing. “If it weren’t for you and Lawrence, I fear I would have been forced into lace pinafores and made to embroider daisies. As it was, I always had to fight and plead for him to teach me how to be a chef.” She paused and her smile faded. “It was so hard when I came home from France, for everything had changed. Papa would no longer let me help him in the kitchens, and I didn’t know what to do with myself. I didn’t seem to fit in anywhere. I had the education of a lady, but I was not a lady.”

  Those lovely hazel eyes looked up at him, and there was a hint of pain in their depths. “And I had somehow lost your friendship on top of everything else. I could not understand why.”

  It felt as if a fist were twisting his guts, and he turned toward the rail. “I never dreamt I had given you distress,” he managed. “I was…I was busy. Estate business.”

  “Of course.”

  He wasn’t looking at her, but he could tell from the tone of her voice that she found that excuse as lame as he did. Suddenly, for some insane reason, he wanted to tell her the truth, but he could not. He had never been good at expressing his feelings. In any case, a gentleman did not speak of his carnal appetites to a woman who was not his mistress. And besides, how could he admit to what he’d felt for her then without it being painfully obvious that he still felt it today?

  She straightened away from the rail. “I should be getting back downstairs. We still have a great deal of work to do before tomorrow.”

  Relief washed over him. “Yes, of course.” He bowed to her. “Good day, Miss Martingale.”

  She dipped a curtsy and walked away, and he willed himself to turn in the opposite direction.

  He went into his rooms and as he closed the door behind him, he caught sight of the dressing table on the other side of the room. He stared at it for a moment, then crossed the room to open one of the drawers. He retrieved an old collar box from the bottom, and removed the lid, then unfolded several layers of yellowed tissue paper and pulled out what he was looking for: a folded, faded strip of pink silk embroidered with white daisies.

  The memory of that day fourteen years ago was as vivid in his mind as if it had happened yesterday. He’d seen the ribbon fall from her hair, and he’d picked it up, thinking to hand it back to her, but then he’d caught the fragrance of her hair on it, and he’d shoved it into his pocket instead. He’d never given returning it to her another thought, not even when he learned it had once belonged to her mother. Not even when she and Lawrence had spent days searching for it. Not even when he’d seen her cry.

  Slowly, he lifted the ribbon to his nostrils. The scents of vanilla and spice that had once permeated the ribbon were long gone, of course, but it didn’t matter. He closed his eyes and breathed deep as the thick, heavy sweetness of his secret desire for her began spreading through his body.

  The door to his dressing room opened, breaking into Phillip’s reverie, and he dropped the ribbon into the drawer as his valet entered the bedroom and halted just inside the doorway.

  “Your bath is drawn, my lord,” the servant informed him.

  “Thank you, Gaston,” he answered over his shoulder. “I’ll be there in a moment.”

  “Very good, sir.” The valet bowed and withdrew back into the dressing room.

  Phillip lifted the bit of silk to his nostrils, imagining one more time the sweet, spice-laden scent of her hair, then he carefully refolded the ribbon. He started to put it back in the box, then he paused.

  She wanted it back. Even after all this time.

  Phillip rubbed the strip of silk, the callus on his thumb catching the strands of embroidery, and that damnable guilt nudged him again. He ought to return it, he knew. He could invent a lie to explain why he had it. Found it in an old trunk, or something.

  He retrieved his silver card case from the breast pocket of his jacket, tucked the ribbon behind his cards where no one would see it, then laid the case on his dressing table.

  He’d return it to her, he told himself as he walked to the dressing room. He would. At the first opportunity.

  Chapter 11

  If music be the food of love, play on.

  William Shakespeare

  Chaos reigned in the kitchens of Avermore House, and if one could set any store by that, the Marquess of Kayne’s May Day Ball was proving to be a smashing success.

  The noise below stairs was deafening. With Bouchard, his sous-chef, and Maria all calling out orders; assistant cooks shouting back answers; scullery maids clattering dishes; and footman rattling trays, Maria couldn’t even hear the music, though the ballroom was directly above their heads.

  “Wait, wait!” she cried as Miss Dexter, a tray of buttered oranges in her hands, raced past her toward the door leading out of the kitchens. The apprentice stopped, and Maria groaned in dismay at the carved-out orange peels filled with custard that lined the tray. “They have to have some sort of decoration, Miss Dexter.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the other woman agreed, “but I haven’t anything left at my post.”

  Maria glanced
around and seized a bowl of whipped cream, ignoring the shouts of protest from the saucier, who had just set aside his whisk. “Oh, don’t get your knickers in a twist, Villefort,” she said, raising her voice to be heard above the string of French curses being hurled at her. “I’ll make you some more.”

  She pulled a spoon from the worktable. “Set down the tray, Miss Dexter, and go whip some cream for Monsieur Villefort before he takes my head off. I’ll finish these and deliver them upstairs.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The other woman hurried away.

  Maria scooped a dollop of the cream onto each orange, impervious to the insults of Villefort, who was still berating her. She handed him back the bowl, added a sprinkle of candied orange peel and a sugared violet to each dessert, then grabbed the tray and headed for the door.

  “Fuss, fuss, fuss,” she muttered as she backed up against the door to push it wide. Turning around, she shut it behind her with a kick of her heel and started up the servants’ staircase. “I don’t know why the French chefs are always so touchy.”

  As she mounted the stairs, she could hear the lively strains of a polka, but she didn’t pause for a glance at the dancers in the ballroom. Instead, she continued down the corridor, her speed slowed more than once by having to flatten herself respectfully against the wall to make way for the pretty debutantes and black-suited gentlemen coming in the opposite direction. She entered the supper room, circling the perimeter to the dessert table at the far end. She set down the buttered oranges, then stacked up the three empty trays that were there, noting which dessert selections needed to be replenished. Trays in hand, she started back the way she had come, but then something caught her eye and she stopped.

  Phillip was standing amid a group of acquaintances, smiling, and it was that smile that captured her attention. It was a wide smile, devastating in effect, for it lit his normally grave countenance and made him seem so handsome that Maria’s breath caught in her throat and she felt as if she were rooted to the floor. Hugging the trays to her chest, she stared at him, further astonished when he threw back his head and laughed. Facing him, talking in an animated fashion, was a beautiful, dark-haired woman in a luscious ciel-blue silk gown. It was she, Maria realized, who was making him laugh and smile, and she felt a sudden, inexplicable pang—the horrible sting of jealousy.