Miss Richardson gave him a suspicious look. “You don’t find it odd I wish to spend so much of my time making desserts?”
“I think everyone should hone their skills in the kitchen. No point in starving if your cook suddenly expires.” Bram’s second wife, Lizabet, had proclaimed surprise at how a roasted chicken came to be at the table completely unaware that an entire staff dwelled in the kitchens. He had amused himself by telling her how chickens were plucked.
“Surely, the right husband would encourage your ambitions, Miss Richardson. Perhaps even assist you.”
Her lovely features hardened at the mere mention of the word ‘husband’. Bram couldn’t blame her. He’d probably made the same face when someone said the word ‘wife’ to him. At least he had beforeher.
“You said the cookbook had recipes for pastries of a unique and challenging nature,” she countered, declining to address his comment. “I’ve consulted with... an associate of mine who also has knowledge of such a collection.”
So, she hadn’t completely believed him. Bram was only shocked she’d found someone else with knowledge ofCuisiner pour les Rois. The way her eyes shifted away from him told Bram that her associate was most likely male. He’d heard the rumors about Lady Andromeda Barrington playing at being a modiste before her marriage to the Duke of Granby and assumed Miss Richardson meant to emulate her cousin.
Clever Miss Richardson.She was busy making biscuits and cakes with an unnamed gentleman. Bram made a mental note to find out the identity of this baker.
“My associate—” She stumbled over the word. “Claims to know the book and has even seen a copy. There is a recipe for a tart. Made famous by —”
“Louis XIV. The Sun King,” Bram interjected. The cookbook in question was at this moment sitting on his bookshelf at home, a small bit of information hecouldhave shared with Miss Richardson when he first told her aboutCuisiner pour les Rois. But at the time, he hadn’t yet decided what todoabout the young lady before him, though this meeting was leaving little doubt. “A cherry tart made with brandy, slivered almonds, custard, and a few more ingredients I won’t divulge.”
Miss Richardson’s eyes widened. “How do you know so much aboutCuisiner pour les Rois? Or know about the tart at all?”
Bram stepped closer to her, closing the small space between them. Unable to help himself, he glanced down, considering, as he often did, all the plump, silken softness hidden from him. That he wanted Miss Richardson was not up for debate. He’d deliberately teased her with the cookbook because he’d known she’d want it, and it would give Bram a reason to seek her out again.
At some point.
Once he decided what to do about Miss Richardson.
Which he now had.
“My mother made it for me,” he said casually, flipping through another book. “Usually on my birthday.”
A small gasp came from her. “Your mother made you Louis XIV’s tart?” Miss Richardson looked at Bram with actual longing, unfortunately not for him but for the bloody cookbook.
“She did.” Bram tried not to stare at her lips. He found them incredibly sensual. The top lip fuller than the bottom and bow shaped. “I adore cherries.”
Cuisiner pour les Roiswas rare. Bram only knew of one or two others, friends of his mother, also émigrés, who had once possessed a copy. He doubted even the esteemed Thrumbadge’s could procure the book for Miss Richardson. When first published, there had been only a few hundred copies produced ofCuisiner pour les Rois,all given as gifts and only to the French nobility. The recipes contained within were considered too marvelous, too royal to be shared with commoners.Copies were burned, according to Bram’s mother, on huge pyres along with everything else associated with the titled class being expunged from France. Had she been caught with the book, she might well have forfeited her life.
Another squeak left Miss Richardson as her lips drew together. “I understand the tart is exquisite.”
“Your,” he paused, “associatesounds as if they have tasted some of the pastries described inCuisiner pour les Roispersonally.” He forced himself to look away from her mouth, pretending to study another one of the books scattered about the table. What on earth was wrong with him? Every woman had lips. A mouth. Yet hers aroused him to no end. This was why Miss Richardson wasn’t the least convenient. Why he was about to upend his existence and go back on a promise he'd made to himself years ago. The decision had been made the moment Bram saw her standing in this dust-filled room paging through obscure French cookbooks.
“Mamancould make most of the desserts in the cookbook from memory,” he said. “Even thebaiser du ciel.”He turned back to her. “It translates to ‘kiss of heaven’. It’s the name of the cherry tart once favored by the Sun King.”
Miss Richardson made a sound. Ecstasy.
A rush of blood went straight to Bram’s cock. He had to bite his lip to keep from moaning out loud.
“I didn’t realize the tart had a name.” She took a step in his direction, so intoxicated by the idea of thebaiser du ciel,he expected her to jump into his arms.
“The tartismarvelous,” Bram said. “I can see why Louis adored it so much. But there are other confections I prefer more. There is a sponge cake, for instance, using fresh oranges that is positively decadent. Difficult to make, however, if you don’t have access to an orangery.”
“A sponge cake?”
Good grief.Miss Richardson was in danger of throwing herself at him. Part of Bram wished she would. It would speed things up nicely.
“Yes. There’s a lemon torte...” He allowed the words to linger in the air, deliberately teasing her. Bram decided Miss Richardson needed to be teased. Often. “A toffee cake. A torte using persimmons.”
“Persimmons?”
“Some of the ingredients are unusual.Cuisiner pour les Roiswas one of my mother’s most prized possessions. After all, she risked her life to smuggle it out of France. She had thought to earn her living as a cook when she arrived in England. Instead, she met my father. He didn’t inherit the title for many years. I wasn’t raised in luxury.” Much like Stanwell, Bram’s father had been a distant relation of another Earl of Torrington in desperate need of an heir. “My mothercooked for us because she liked to, and it pleased my father. Alas,” Bram laughed thinking of long afternoons spent in the kitchens with his mother. “My sister never learned to make the custard correctly.”
