“A vexing predicament.”
Was that sarcasm Sebastian detected? “It most certainly is vexing. I’ve spent the last five months in exile, hoping the chit would find herself a mate. All to no avail, I might add. The baron assures me the girl isn’t even interested in another bloke.”
“So that’s why you disappeared to the mainland? And that’s why you’re going back again, isn’t it?” Peter chuckled. “My sympathies, Seb. You’ve a most dire predicament on your hands. What with a beautiful woman chasing you about, and all.”
He growled, “You know damn well nothing can come of it.”
“Oh yes, perish the thought that a man your age should retire his wicked ways and settle down with a lovely chit.”
Sebastian glared at his brother. “What the devil do you mean, ‘a man my age’? I’ve yet to sprout a white hair.”
“Listen, Seb, it’s worth thinking about—”
“No! It’s not.”
Peter sighed. “And why the devil not?”
Because Sebastian wasn’t about to give up his foul habits. A deviant did not “retire” his wicked ways. Such behavior was an incorrigible way of life, an addiction in the blood. And he happened to like his wicked ways, blast it! A fussy wife was sure to dampen his lusty disposition, spoil his sinful pursuits. And he certainly wasn’t going to marry an adorable minx like Henrietta, who didn’t even spark a bit of arousal in him. “I won’t marry the girl.”
“Oh, Seb.”
Peter looked across the pond, and Sebastian unwittingly followed his brother’s gaze.
The viscount caught sight of Henrietta with the children, waving to him. Something snagged on his heart. He quickly dismissed the sentiment.
“Leave it alone, Peter. I don’t belong with Henrietta.”
An hour later, hungry and tired, the skating party quit the ice and headed for the cozy comforts of home.
Sebastian, too, trailed after the crowd, dodging the children’s snowballs—and Peter’s. He was about to wallop his pestering brother over the head, when he noticed one member of their group was unaccounted for.
Henrietta.
Sebastian looked back at the pond to find her skating alone. Hands clasped behind her back, her cape fluttering in the breeze, she gracefully twirled on the ice, humming, enjoying the solitude, no doubt.
He turned away to give her peace, when the sharp sound of cutting ice filled his ears.
“Will you join me, Ravenswood?”
Sebastian peered over his shoulder again. Henrietta had skated to the pond’s edge, her cheeks flushed with rosy life, her breath icy clouds on her plump red lips. Vigorous exercise heartily agreed with her, it seemed. Even her eyes sparkled like golden syrup.
“I wouldn’t be very pleasant company, Miss Ashby.”
She let out a husky laugh. Though it was cold, the frigid air making her voice scratchy, Sebastian still sensed a peculiar jolt in the pit of his belly at her smoky chortle.
“Rot, Ravenswood! Besides, you need the practice.”
She winked at him. A playful wink that struck a chord of…arousal in him? Preposterous. He could not have these kinds of feelings for the girl. It was simply impossible. She was a delightful scamp. Always had been. She had not changed that much in five months. Nor had he, surely.
Sebastian looked back at the skating party, now fading dots on the horizon. “Really, Miss Ashby, I think it best if we both return to the house.”
“Oh, I’m not ready to retire. But you go on ahead, if you must. Know this, though, you leave a friend vulnerable in the wilderness.”
He flicked a brow upward at the wilderness bit, for the house was in perfect view of the pond, but otherwise did not protest. Instead he sighed and rested his sore rump on the frozen log once more. “Then I suppose the duty falls upon me to guard you, Miss Ashby—from the wilderness, of course.”
“I like that.” With a haughty air, she admonished, “You’ll sit there, on that icy lump, rather than skate with me? I warn you, Ravenswood, a friend might start to feel slighted.”
“I assure you, Miss Ashby, I’ve no intention of affronting you.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” She smiled and moved off again, shouting, “Now put on your skates!”
Why, the bossy little chit! When the devil had she sprouted such an officious disposition? Better yet, why had she sprouted such an officious disposition? What was the girl up to?
“Would you like me to come ashore and help you with your skates, Ravenswood?”
“That won’t be necessary, Miss Ashby,” he all but growled, as he set to work strapping the bothersome skates to his boots once more. Blast it! How the devil had he gotten himself into this mess—again?
With an unsteady air, Sebastian made his way back onto the ice, and quickly found himself surrounded by Henrietta.
“Here,” she said. “Take my hand.”
And before he could protest, she clasped him by the hand and secured her other palm to his waist.
Sebastian stiffened at the intimate embrace. Never before had the girl touched him in such a way. He’d been so careful in the past to avoid physical contact, not wanting to encourage her misplaced adoration. But now that she had him in her arms, a bewildering warmth seeped through his blood.
“You and I have never danced before,” she said, as she waltzed across the ice with him—leading, at that. The impudent chit. “Why is that, Ravenswood?”
Because you’ve always hounded me for your husband, that’s why.
But he fibbed instead. “I’m a very poor dancer, Miss Ashby.”
“A poor dancer. A poor skater. Poor company. Do you expect me to believe you flourish at nothing?”
“That’s right, Miss Ashby.”
“Rot!” Her eyes sparked, a dark fire burning in the bronze pools. “I think you flourish at a great many things, my lord, and I wish you’d share your accomplishments with me. We are friends, after all.”
Sebastian glowered at her, not really sure what to make of her request. If only he could think straight. But with the girl’s elfin fingers caressing his waist, stirring a fiery storm in his belly, there wasn’t much chance of that happening.
Brushing her palm away from his midriff, Sebastian set it atop his shoulder—where it belonged.
Belatedly he realized that wasn’t a very wise move, for now his hand would have to go on her waist. Bloody hell.
“Miss Ashby?” he said with firm purpose.
“Yes, my lord.”
And that was another thing. What the deuce did she mean by calling him “my lord” and “Ravenswood” at every turn? It’d been a quaint diversion the first night of his return, but now it was a bloody distraction to hear her call him by his title. He had the feeling the girl was funning with him each time she used the appellation.
“Ravenswood?”
He blinked. “What?”
“You had something to say to me, I believe.”
That’s right, he did. He had a great many things to say to her. Why aren’t you married yet? for one. And What the devil has come over you? for another. “Is that jasmine I smell?”
“Why, yes, my lord. Do you like it?”
Like it? He could wallow in it. It was his favorite scent. Not that he’d ever told the girl so. Certainly not. It was a mere coincidence she was wearing the one fragrance that could make his head spin.
Devil take it, that’s not what he wanted to talk to her about. “Miss Ashby—”
“Do you realize you’ve not stumbled once, my lord?”
Sebastian reflected upon her words. She was right, he hadn’t.
“You are a very good teacher, Miss Ashby.”
“Rubbish. You’re just not that poor a skater.”
No, he was a very poor skater, which made the balancing act all the more mystifying.
“You’ve misplaced your confidence in me, Miss Ashby.”
Slowly she shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
Sebastian watched the gentle s
way of her locks, a dark auburn in hue. Her curls were tucked beneath a fetching fur cap, a few stray tendrils bouncing with each twirl on the ice.
She really did look like a snow faerie, so whimsical and fearless. Her bright eyes gleamed with laughter and life. And for just a moment, he could see himself in the honey brown pools. It alarmed him.
“It’s getting dark,” she said softly, her russet red lashes fluttering. “We should head back to the house.”
She broke away from the embrace and skated to the pond’s edge, leaving Sebastian feeling curiously cold in the center of the ice.
Chapter 7
A disgruntled Sebastian made his way through the house and scowled. Henrietta’s penchant for tardiness was rubbing off on him, it seemed. He had snored right through breakfast!
Stifling a curse, he stepped into the dining parlor.
“Morning, Seb.” Peter was sitting alone in the room, reading a paper. “’Bout time you roused your sleepy head to join us.”
Sebastian ignored the quip and poured himself a cup of lukewarm tea. He was hungry, but the serving plates on the table were dusted with crumbs. He looked at his brother.
“Oh, sorry, Seb.” Peter rustled the paper. “But you know how it goes: the early bird gets the worm, and all. There might be a few scraps left in the kitchen.”
With a sigh, Sebastian set his teacup aside and quit the room in search of the kitchen.
He stifled a yawn. He hadn’t nabbed a wink of sleep the other night, he was so restless. Had the baron changed the bed since his last visit? Sebastian didn’t think so; the bed looked the same. But something was keeping him awake.
He moved through the house to the servant stairwell and strutted down the dark steps.
It was a large underground system of tunnels, leading to the kitchen, all lit by candlelight. Sebastian strolled past dish racks and dry sinks, a wine cellar and the cook’s bedroom before he happened upon a warm, roasting fire…and Henrietta.
She was at a long wood table, her auburn hair twisted in a tight chignon. She was wearing an apron to protect her day dress—and rolling dough.
Sebastian sniffed the air.
Ginger.
She was making gingerbread.
Henrietta picked up a small sack of flour, tipped it, and dumped most of the powder on the breadboard.
She gasped and quickly scooped the extra flour back into the sack, stirring up a white cloud.
“Achooo!”
He shouldn’t be alone with the chit; it wasn’t right…but he was hungry.
“Bless you, Miss Ashby.”
She bristled. “Oh, good morning, Ravenswood.” She stuffed the rest of the flour into the sack, wiped her powdery fingers across her apron—and smiled.
The warm glow of the fire brightened her cheeks, the soft dusting of a rosy blush making her all the more winsome.
“What are you doing here, Ravenswood?”
Sebastian stooped to pass under the short door frame. “I’m hungry, Miss Ashby.”
There was a look in her eyes, a smoky look. The kind of look a wanton mistress would offer when she was gripped by a carnal hunger.
Sebastian blinked. It must be the shadows in the room, fooling his eyes.
“I’m afraid I missed breakfast this morning, Miss Ashby.”
There was a wooden bowl on the table, covered with linen. She flipped back the cloth. “Cookies, my lord?”
Sebastian approached the table and peeked into the bowl. “Did you bake the cookies?”
“Just now.”
A bit dubious, Sebastian picked up a piece of gingerbread. “Why are you baking cookies, Miss Ashby?”
“Oh, I bake them every year at Christmas.”
“Do you?”
She nodded. “For the children in the village.”
Sebastian eyed her, then the cookie again. Well, it looked edible.
He popped the spicy treat into his mouth and found it to be…“Delicious.”
She beamed. “Thank you, my lord. Have another.”
“I think I will, Miss Ashby.”
One. Two. Three. Four treats later—maybe more—Sebastian’s belly was thoroughly filled and satisfied. The chit really was a splendid cook.
“That was very good, Miss Ashby.”
There was something shifty about her smile. “I’m glad you think so, Ravenswood.” She plunked another breadboard on the table. “Here. You’ll need this.”
He eyed the culinary accouterment with curiosity. “For what?”
“Well, since you ate all the children’s cookies, you’ll have to make some more dough.”
He blinked. “Miss Ashby, you’re not—”
A large bowl landed on the breadboard. “Put in three cups of flour.”
Sebastian just stared at her. She wanted him to bake? Cookies?
“Miss Ashby, I don’t know the first thing about making cookies.”
“That’s why I’m here, Ravenswood.” She passed him a cup. “Three cups, remember.”
Sebastian took the cup and stifled a growl. He had to work for his food. How ignoble. If he’d known the price of those blasted cookies, he’d have starved instead.
He divested his coat and rolled up his sleeves.
“You tricked me, Miss Ashby.” He dumped the flour into the bowl. “That wasn’t very good of you.”
“Perhaps I did, my lord…a cup of brown sugar next…but it’s lonely down here; I need the company of a friend.”
He humphed and mixed in the brown sugar.
She handed him two small vials. “Now for a pinch of cinnamon and a dash of ginger.”
He tossed in the spices. “What happened to your sisters?”
Henrietta worked at her end of the table, rolling a ready batch of dough. “My sisters took the children in the sleighs for a winter trip.”
“What about the servants?”
“Tomorrow’s Christmas, Ravenswood. The servants get a holiday. Besides, I volunteered to bake the cookies.”
“And yet here I am, helping you.”
She grinned. “I really appreciate the assistance, my lord.” She took a round tin cookie cutter and sliced up the gingerbread. “If we work together, we’ll be done by luncheon.”
He paused. “Luncheon? How many cookies do you intend we bake?”
“Oh, a few hundred or so should do it…the wet ingredients are next.”
She pushed a jug of brown goop his way.
After he’d recovered from the shock of having to make a few hundred cookies, he looked into the jug and grimaced. “What is that?”
“Molasses.” She picked up a spoon. “Here. Use this to scrape it out; the molasses is very thick.”
Sebastian sighed and poured in the gummy ingredient. The wily chit had hoodwinked him thoroughly. Again. How did he keep getting tricked into skating trips and cooking parties?
But it was hard to be vexed with the girl when there was a dusting of flour on the tip of her pert nose.
“I didn’t know you were so generous with the village children, Miss Ashby.”
She put the rest of the gingerbread cookies on the iron griddle. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Ravenswood.”
“I’m beginning to realize that.”
Henrietta picked up the griddle and a scrap of black wool, and sashayed over to the fireplace. She reached inside the hearth with the wool, pulled out the crane, and set the griddle on the S-hook.
She swung the iron arm back over the fire. “That should take just a few minutes.”
All the while, Sebastian studied her lithe movement. He pondered her skill in the kitchen and wondered what else he didn’t know about the girl.
Henrietta returned to the table and checked on his progress. “Now for the egg, my lord. Try not to get the shell into the bowl…on second thought, let me do it.” She cracked the egg on the side of the dish and dropped in the yolk, discarding the shell. “Now mix it all up.”
Sebastian glanced across the cluttered table, spo
tted a wooden spoon, and picked it up.
“Oh no!” She whisked the wooden spoon away. “With your hands.”
He looked down at the sloppy mixture. “I’m not touching that.”
She sighed. “Let me show you, Ravenswood.” She took his hands and pushed them into the gooey blend. “Like this.”
Sebastian’s outrage fizzled the moment she started to work her fingers over his. In deft strokes, she kneaded the dough with him, pushing his hands together, forcing him to press and squeeze the supple compound.
There was something very familiar about the movement of her hands. A pulsing rhythm that warmed the blood in his veins.
Perhaps he should bake cookies more often?
Sebastian could hear her soft breath, a slow beat. Smell the sprinkle of jasmine at her throat. He looked into her eyes as she molded the dough, such a deep toffee brown. Dots of flickering candlelight reflected in the glossy pools.
Sebastian must be standing too close to the fire, for he could feel the flames licking…
“Smoke,” he whispered.
She flicked her pretty lashes. “What’s that, my lord?”
He sniffed. “I think the cookies are burning, Miss Ashby.”
“Oh no!” She quickly wiped her fingers on her apron and rushed over to the hearth. With the scrap of black wool, she snatched the griddle from the flames and carried it back to the table.
Henrietta set the griddle on the iron spider and inspected the cookies. “They don’t look too bad.”
With a knife, she picked up a cookie to check the underside.
Black as pitch.
“Oh dear.” She tsked. “I’ll feed these to the hounds. We’ll have to start anew, my lord.”
Sebastian took in a deep breath to dispel the balmy heat in his belly.
Finished by luncheon, indeed.
“Be careful, Henry!” Penelope cried. “You’ll burn your sleeve!”
“Give the boy some room,” said the baron, and waved a hand. “Step back everyone. Step back.”
Henrietta pursed her lips in concentration. She eyed the floating raisin in the fiery bowl—not an easy task in the darkened room—and licked her fingers to moisten the tips.
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