“Rubbish.” Bram cast her a sideways glance, hearing the hint of annoyance in her tone. “Are you put out because I didn’t ask you to dance at the Ralston ball?”
Miss Richardson’s scent invaded his nostrils. Vanilla. Sugar. Cinnamon. Like the inside of a bloody bakery. He wondered if she’d been baking biscuits or eating them. “I handed you a lemonade, didn’t I? And told you aboutCuisiner pour les Rois.”
“And little else but the name.” Her eyes narrowed while her fingers tightened on the book clasped in her hand. “The lemonade was procured for me under duress, as was your escort to the refreshment table. You left me to find my own way back through the crowd.”
“But you seem so capable, Miss Richardson. I didn’t think you required my escort.”
“I didn’t. But returning me to my mother would have been the polite thing to do.”
Bram looked down at the tome clasped tightly in her hands. “You aren’t going to toss that book at me, are you, Miss Richardson?”
“Why would I?”
“You seem annoyed.”
“I find you irritating.”
“Fair enough.” Bram thought it a quite bit more than irritation, or perhaps he was merely hopeful. Head tilting to the side, his eyes roamed over the spine of the book, brows raised. Deliberately, Bram reached one hand behind her, his arm almost making contact with her waist. He heard her breath catch, anticipating his touch. Their gazes locked together, Bram’s nose mere inches from hers as he plucked a book off the table.
“The Preparation of Chicken.”
“You read French.”
“I do.” Bram shrugged. “My mother was from Chartres, just outside Paris, so I grew up speaking both English and French. You might wish to sit down so you don’t collapse when I reveal the rest of my language skills. I also know a smattering of Italian and German.”
That lovely mouth pursed. “I didn’t realize your mother was French.”
“An émigré. She fled while others lost their heads. Worked as a kitchen maid for a time, hiding her noble background and learning to cook. My grandfather was acomte. Taken toMadameGuillotinelike so many others.” Gently, Bram pulled at the book she held.
Miss Richardson tugged back. “I’m sorry.”
“It was a long time ago.” Bram intentionally skimmed his fingers over the top of hers, and she finally released the tome with a small sound. “Ah,How to Cook Wild Game. Very nice, Miss Richardson.”
“Don’t look surprised, my lord. I’ve often wondered at preparing wild boar.”
“As most young ladies do, I’m sure. I had imagined you striding across the moors, rifle in hand, ready to shoot an unsuspecting grouse. Or an unfortunate rabbit. But I hadn’t considered a boar.” Bram had a sudden, glorious vision of Miss Richardson, skirts flying about in the wind, striding through the tall grass, her hair down and whipping about her cheeks.
“Spare yourself the trouble, my lord. I’ve never once walked across a moor, let alone used a firearm.”
“What a pity. Perhaps I’ll teach you one day. Though it would probably be a mistake to show you how to use a firearm given your temper and obvious dislike.”
“I don’t have a temper.”
Bram noted she didn’t deny her aversion tohim. “I must disagree. And you would look striking against the heather, Miss Richardson, with all that lavender color popping behind you.” He turned back to the table, seeing how the blotchiness of her skin intensified, like some terrible skin rash. A deep sigh left him. It didn’t matter. He still wanted her. The mottling of her cheeks and neck didn’t deter him, or his cock, in the least.
“Are you looking for something in particular?” he said.
Her brows arched. “You know that I am.”
Bram made contact with her shoulder purposefully while reaching for another tome, inhaling the vanilla clinging to her skin. “I piqued your curiosity.”
Defiance flashed back at him. “Against my better judgement.”
Miss Richardson was so determined not to like him. Partly, he assumed, because her mother favored a match between them. There was the matter of his age and admittedly somewhat tattered past, but that hadn’t deterred any other young lady in London from seeking him out. Shewasattracted to him, no matter her denials. Bram could tell by the way her body arched just slightly in his direction, the tiny sounds she made when he drew too near, and of course, that terrible blush.
“I was trying to be helpful, Miss Richardson. I won’t mock you for your ambitions. On the contrary, I applaud your determination.” She had a singular purpose. Some gentlemen might scoff at the well-bred daughter of a viscount attempting to become a successful woman of business, but Bram did not. He found that she aspired to something more than being a wife and bearing children to be worthy of respect, if nothing else.
“Extending the olive branch of friendship, so to speak.” He inhaled her, unable to help himself. She smelled like a cinnamon bun. One he desired most desperately to take a bite of.
