Never Resist Temptation

by Miranda Neville

  Her voice interrupted his planning. “Just a minute or two for the caramel to cool, then we can eat.”

  The matter-of-fact tone acted on his fevered yearning. Not like cold water—it would take an entire bathful of the stuff to do that—but perhaps like a cool shower of rain. What the hell are you thinking? he asked himself. Seducing a servant in a kitchen was very far from his usual sexual modus operandi. Past liaisons had been conducted in opulent love nests with well-paid courtesans. If he had any sense he’d stand up and keep walking, without looking back until he reached the safety of his own rooms.

  Staggering uncomfortably to his feet, he again tightened the sash of his robe.

  “It’s late,” he said brusquely. “I should go back upstairs.”

  “Oh no!” she objected. “You must have a taste before you go. They’re at their best when fresh from the oven.”

  Jacobin wasn’t going to let him leave without sampling her pastry. It would be wiser to let him go. She’d had enough experience evading the advances of back-door visitors at her uncle’s house to suspect that his intentions were seductive. But her professional mettle had been aroused.

  She picked up one of the cream-filled puffs in its glossy caramel cloak and stood in front of him. He swayed backward, refusing the proffered morsel. With reckless audacity she moved closer and placed it to his lips. He took a bite, and her fascinated eyes followed the motion of his stubbled jaw and exposed throat as he consumed it. She could almost taste it with him: the light, spongy pastry for texture; the richness of the cream; the darker, more intense sweetness of the caramelized sugar, taken from the fire at the very brink of burning.

  “Delicious. I can see you haven’t exaggerated your talents.” His lips parted in demand, so she popped the rest of the puff between them, removing her fingers just before they were captured by his closing mouth.

  “I’m glad you’re satisfied.”

  These artless words—or perhaps the perfection of her pastry—seemed to affect his voice. “What are these things really called?” he croaked, staring at her so intently her very bones quivered.

  “In French they are profiteroles. Little puffs made from pâte à chou and filled with crème chantilly. Chou is also the French word for ‘cabbage.’ Petit chou—‘little cabbage’—is an endearment often used toward children.”

  She was babbling, she knew. Anything to take her mind off the nearness of a large male clothed in a dressing gown and who knew what, or how little, else. Something, perhaps the scent of his skin, indefinable and enticing, had scrambled her brain.

  “Do you want another?” she asked huskily. He nodded and popped one in his mouth, concentrating on the rich little wisp. She helped herself to one too. She bit carelessly and the inevitable happened: cream spewed from the overstuffed puff over her lips and chin. She could even feel a small cold blob on the tip of her nose.

  Now she had all his attention.

  “You’ve made a mess,” he chided. “Let me help you.”

  Arms encircled her waist, and she felt a tongue delicately lick the end of her nose.

  “Mm, sweet,” he murmured, then lowered his mouth to gather the remainder of the chantilly from her lips. Her tongue, engaged on the same mission, clashed with his, and his heat, mingling with the cool cream, was not unpleasant.

  Quite the contrary.

  She had to admit to herself that she’d wanted to kiss the Earl of Storrington. The reality was even better than her unconscious anticipation. Thought vanished into a vanilla haze as he deepened the embrace, plundering her mouth and drawing her body to his chest. It was unlike any kiss she’d ever experienced. She responded fervently, pulling his head closer with eager hands that laced through his hair and traced the shape of his skull.

  His hands were busy too, massaging her back through the muslin shift, then descending to press her against him. She could feel his erection, alarmingly hard, but apprehension disappeared in a sensual wave, powerful enough to submerge any doubts. Her inarticulate mind reveled in contradictory sensations of delicious danger and a safety such as she’d rarely felt in years.

  “Sweetness,” he murmured against her mouth, then renewed his assault. She didn’t know whether it was an endearment or a comment on the cream. Neither did she care. All she knew was that this was where she was meant to be, what she’d been born to do.

  Now his face was buried in her neck, kissing and nipping the sensitive skin and sending lightning darts throughout her body that focused in a sweet, hot ache between her thighs.

  “You feel so good,” he whispered. Large hands were pulling at the shift tucked into her breeches.

  “Yes!” she urged, yearning for those hands to find her bare skin. “Oui, mon chou.”

  Why had he stopped? She wanted him to touch her now.

  His arms hung at his sides as he drew back. He looked stricken.

  “I’m sorry, so sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. It shouldn’t have happened.” Turning from her, he hurried to the door.

  “I’m sorry,” he repeated as he left.

  Chapter 8

  Twelve hours later Anthony was in London. He’d escaped the kitchen like a fugitive hare and hardly stopped until he reached his Brook Street house. Even there the harriers snapped at his feet; his lust for Jane Castle had led to several sleepless hours in bed and continued to torment him during the hours of his hastily arranged journey. Jem Webster might grumble at the inconvenient turnaround, but it was worth every silent and not-so-subtle reproach aimed at him by the head groom. Only when ensconced at his desk in the library of the Storrington town house did he feel at ease.

  He must put the previous night’s scene behind him, and—God knows—lay off the pastry. The sweetness had robbed him of his wits. It was good to be back in town and turn all his attention to the business that really mattered: completing his plan of vengeance against Candover. He’d think no more about Jane Castle and her golden chestnut curls, her glowing eyes, her lithe feminine body, the taste of her apricot lips…

  Ah, Jane! A less aptly named woman he’d never met. Not a plain English rose but everything exotic: an orchid, silk damask, perfume of Arabia, sauternes, Turkish delight…

  And a respectable young woman in his service.

  He refused to think about what had saved him from committing an unpardonable indiscretion: the memory of his mother feeding him sweets and calling him her petit chou.

  He took up his pen and settled to the unwelcome task of writing to his sister.

  Lady Kitty Thornley, along with her young daughter, Catherine, received him in the drawing room of the comfortable house that she and her husband had rented every season since their marriage.

  “I thought you’d be in Brighton, Anthony, since you’ve become so attached to the Prince Regent’s set.”

  Anthony tried to suppress the twitch of irritation that was often spawned by his sister’s pronouncements. He always sensed subtle criticism of his activities.

  “I’m hardly an intimate of Prinny’s, Kitty,” he said in a level tone. “I merely spent a few days in Brighton and attended his dinner in honor of Count Lieven. I was surprised to hear you were in London at this time of year. I gather Walter didn’t accompany you.”

  Lady Kitty’s response might, in one of less ruthless elegance, be called a snort. “Leave Leicestershire during hunting season? Never! Nothing would drag him and the boys away. Not even week after week of appalling weather. But Cat and I decided to escape the rain and come up to London for some shopping.”

  “What did you do about servants?” The Thornleys always brought their household with them to London.

  “Left most of them at home. Cat and I can manage with simple meals and very little attention.” She smiled at the girl who was seated at a Pembroke table working on a drawing.

  Anthony felt a recurrence of the guilt that had plagued him when he’d first received word of Kitty’s unseasonable London trip. He had a large house and could easily offer room to any or all of
his sister’s family. He just couldn’t abide the thought of having her there for several weeks. She doubtless resented his lack of generosity. The house had, after all, once been one of her homes, and she’d made her debut and been married from it.

  Catherine fixed her eight-year-old eyes on Anthony. “Mama said she’d take me to Grafton House this morning, Uncle Anthony. We’re going to buy Christmas presents for Papa and John and George. Do you think, Mama, that there will still be time?”

  Oddly enough Anthony didn’t mind this hinted reproach, much more overt than any Cat’s mother had aimed at him. He was fond of his niece, and of both her brothers. He grinned at her.

  “My apologies, Cat, for disturbing your plans. I’ll try and conduct my business with your mother quickly so you can get on with your outing.”

  “What business?” Kitty cut in. “I’m curious about why you’re here.”

  “I wish to give a dinner party and would like you to act as hostess.”

  Kitty seemed pleased. In repose she wasn’t a particularly pretty woman. Unlike her brothers she took after her father; her appearance was distinguished rather than comely. It occurred to Anthony that she’d been pale and dejected, but now her face lit up and she looked quite handsome.

  “What fun! Of course there aren’t many people in town now, but with so little going on everyone will be delighted to come. Who do you wish to ask? How many? And how soon?”

  Anthony held up a hand in protest. “One question at a time, please! I have a few suggestions for the guest list but I need your help too. You know better than I of any unmarried girls who might be available.”

  “Anthony!” Kitty leaped to her feet in ecstasy. “Girls? Don’t tell me you’re finally going to look for a wife.”

  Again he fought irritation. Kitty had been haranguing him for years about his single state, and he hated to give her the satisfaction of seeing him change his stance.

  “I’m not unmindful of my duty,” he said stiffly. “It’s been long enough since our father died, and I am aware that I must see to the succession. Invite two or three young ladies—though not too young, I beg you. And please be tactful about it.”

  “You may leave it to me. No one will suspect a thing. In fact it might be better if I give the impression that this is my party and you are being kind enough to let me hold it in your house.”

  Out of habit Anthony looked for the hidden barb in this suggestion, but couldn’t find one. Kitty seemed perfectly genuine in her wish to be helpful. Too helpful in fact.

  “Whatever you think is best, Kitty. You know the capacity of the house. Do you think you could manage it in a week or so?”

  She considered the matter before nodding her agreement. “I don’t see why not. But Gunter’s must be contacted at once for the sweets. We won’t get an impressive display without enough notice.”

  “There’s no need to order from Gunter’s.” When it came to the point he found himself reluctant to talk about Jane Castle. But this was, after all, the whole point of hiring her. “I’ve employed a pastry cook. French trained and as good as any in London.”

  “Why on earth?” Kitty demanded in astonishment. “You hate puddings!”

  “Not all of them,” he replied, “and it’s quite the mode now to have French pastry cooks.”

  “My dear brother! When did you ever trouble about the mode?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Are you accusing me of being unfashionable?”

  Kitty snorted again. “Hardly. But you’ve usually preferred to set fashion rather than follow it.”

  That sounded almost like a compliment from his sister. How singular.

  “Whatever the reason,” he said with more warmth than he’d felt since the conversation began, “I have hired the woman. She’s at Storrington now, but I’ll send for her at once and you can arrange the menu with her and the cook.”

  He tried not to feel pleased about the prospect of having Jane Castle under the same roof again. He’d do better to leave his female relations to their own affairs and go to his club. There, no doubt, he’d find the latest news on Candover’s health.

  Tom Hawkins had never investigated a crime against a member of the nobility before. After a week he began to feel a measure of sympathy for the would-be murderer. Lord Candover’s associates tended to regard the Bow Street runner’s questioning in the light of a personal affront. At least one bloated peer seemed to feel the impertinence of the inquiry was on a par with the crime itself. He’d treated Hawkins as though he were no better than the assassin he was trying to track. Hawkins had an Englishman’s healthy scorn for all things French, but there were moments when it crossed his mind that the froggies might have had something when they started stringing up their aristocrats.

  Thinking of the French brought to mind the one break he’d received in the case. When the Prince Regent’s fancy French chef, Monsieur Antonin Carême, had finally risen from his sickbed he’d revealed that the missing cook, Jacob Léon, had been hired on a recommendation from a former colleague: Jean-Luc Clèves, lately employed by none other than Lord Candover.

  Coincidence? Tom Hawkins didn’t believe in coincidence. But this promising lead was blocked by the fact that Jean-Luc Clèves was currently at some unknown location in France. Even with the cooperation of the English embassy in Paris, it could take weeks to find and question him.

  In Hawkins’s opinion there was something havey-cavey about the way Clèves had left Candover’s employ. Lord Candover had been devilish cagey on the subject, and his servants, who’d worked with the man, were as tight-lipped as their master.

  Which left Hawkins with only one alternative: to find Jacob Léon.

  A young cook, a friend of the missing man, told him that someone had offered Léon a job the day of the attempted poisoning but claimed he didn’t know who. Hawkins was inclined to believe him. Dick Johnson lacked both the head and the stomach for deception. But the kitchen boy Charlie was another matter. Charlie’s knowing eyes gleamed with sincerity as he denied all knowledge of Léon’s whereabouts. Hawkins didn’t trust the young varmint for a minute.

  Jacobin regarded herself as thoroughly level-headed, imbued with Gallic pragmatism, her attitudes and decisions based firmly in reality.

  But she knew she had a tendency to be just the teeniest bit impetuous. There were unfortunate moments when she acted without thinking, and too often those actions got her into trouble. Oddly enough it was her sentimental English mother who had deplored this proclivity as a child, begging her to look before she leaped. Felicity had been mortified when the six-year-old Jacobin had been overcome with the urge to bounce on Madame Récamier’s chaise longue, and spilled her chocolate on the upholstery. Her adoring father had merely laughed. He did so again when she asked the voluble Germaine de Staël why she talked so much.

  “She only posed the question everyone else in Paris wanted to,” Auguste had assured his embarrassed wife.

  Every time Jacobin was punished by her uncle for some transgression, she’d sworn she’d never again give him an excuse to abuse her. But, although they came less frequently as she grew up, there were instances when a desire to do something took hold of her and she had no will to resist the urge

  Like feeding a profiterole to Lord Storrington.

  What had she been thinking?

  The answer to that was easy. Intellect had nothing to do with it, only impulse. He had refused to eat her pastry, and she was determined that he would. Everything afterward had followed as a result of her shocking urge to feed her employer. Recollecting the event in tranquillity—well, at least in a semblance of such—she was appalled. Surely not even her father would have laughed. Certainly not about the kiss.

  Never again, she told herself, however much she’d enjoyed it.

  First there was the basic stupidity of a servant encouraging advances from the master of the house. Was she to end up ruined and enceinte? She’d always despised women who foolishly let themselves be used that way.

 
Then there was her own particular situation. As a fugitive from the law, the last thing she should do was draw any special attention to herself. Not to mention Storrington’s behavior with regard to that infamous wager. If that wasn’t enough reason to distrust him, he was apparently also the kind of libertine who dallied with his servants.

  Not that he’d dallied long. He’d run out of the kitchen as though pursued by man-eating dogs. Really, it was quite annoying.

  Having snatched a couple of hours’ rest in her comfortless room in the servants’ wing, Jacobin descended to the kitchens resolved to avoid the earl. It turned out to be easier than she’d thought. He’d left for London.

  Her lovely brioche went untasted and ended up with the pig swill. Mrs. Simpson made it clear that such foreign muck wasn’t going to be served in any servants’ hall of hers, and she spurned Jacobin’s offer to contribute to the household meals.

  “His Lordship may do as he wishes,” she said icily, “but I’m in charge of feeding the staff.”

  “Very well, but please don’t hesitate to ask if you need assistance.” Jacobin had decided there was no point further antagonizing the cook. “I’ll go and speak to Mr. Simpson about getting my pastry room arranged.”

  With some reluctance the butler, who clearly resided firmly under the thumb of his surly spouse, said he’d speak to His Lordship’s steward about setting up the unused pantry for her. Which left Jacobin with nothing to do but wander aimlessly around the park in unpleasantly dank weather.

  In negotiating the terms of her employment with Storrington, she’d insisted on an hour free a day. Life in the Prince Regent’s household had left her little time for exercise and reflection. Now she had nothing to do except exercise and reflect. Her feet developed chilblains from treading soggy paths, and she’d rather be busy than spend any more time worrying about her problems. And trying not to think about her employer, his enthralling attention, and his dazzling kisses. She’d give a good deal to be back in Brighton constructing a charlotte russe for the regent’s dinner.