He leapt up from his stool and rushed to the bag of flour.“What do I measure with?”
“Bring it here.I’ll show you.”
For the next half hour, they worked side-by-side.
Nicholas had no doubt the mixing of the batter took twice as long with him helping, but he had never had more fun.The flour dusting both their clothes, the smudge of butter on her cheek, every brush of her fingers against his as she showed him how to mix the dough.He grinned to himself.
Baking biscuits was his new favorite pastime.
When the first tray was finally ready for the oven, he was surprised to realize that he’d forgotten all about the original dozen cooling on the table.Those twelve minutes had long since elapsed.His eyes widened.He’d been too busy enjoying his time with Miss Mitchell to bother eating shortbread biscuits.What on earth was happening?
Miss Mitchell perched on a stool and popped one of the biscuits into her mouth.“First time in the kitchen?”
“I’ve been in scads of kitchens,” he protested.
“First time making something edible?”
“The biscuits are still in the oven,” he reminded her.“We’ll have to see.”
“It’s a good skill for you to develop,” she said.“If you offer nice enough biscuits, perhaps people will still visit you after your good looks are gone.”
He choked on his biscuit.“After my what?”
“It’s nature,” she said.“Humannature.Your features will never lose their appealing symmetry.But at some point, the rest of you will fail to meet the prevailing beauty standards.Perhaps you will be too fat or too skinny.Too bald or too hairy.”She cocked her head.“Men do tend to sprout hairs from all sorts of interesting places as they get older.”
“Is this another reference to my bits?”he asked.“I promise they haven’t been sprouting anything.”
Besides, there was no need to learn how to bake.His staff most certainly included a cook.If he wished to entertain at home, there would be no shortage of biscuits.
“You need a hobby,” she continued.“Once the whole rake boom dries up, you’ll need something to do.”
Hehadsomething to do.A secret life, forging molten glass into works of art that would never fade or age.That side of him would have to stay private.Thetonwould never comprehend how menial tasks could bring so much joy.They would laugh him right out of London.
Miss Mitchell understood.She had a maid on staff fully capable of baking, but preferred to get her hands dirty herself.She thought he could be more than just a rake.
Then again, she was also an eccentric lady chemist living in a remote village in the northernmost corner of all of England.In such unusual circumstances, an independently wealthy spinster could be as peculiar as she pleased.
Nicholas did not share that freedom.His hobby would have to remain a secret.If anything, he did his best to ensure that life as he knew it would never change at all.
“Your vision of me in the future is some fat, balding, white-bearded old man who sits around eating biscuits?”he enquired politely.
She lifted her brows.“What’syourvision of yourself in the future?”
He stared back at her without responding.Truth be told, he’d been concentrating too hard on each day as it passed to bother worrying about what the future held.
Her prediction terrified him.His looks were all he had.What would he be when they were gone?It would happen.Someday he would be too old or too tired or too roly-poly from excess biscuit consumption to carry on as he was now.He’d end up spending every day in his workshop.Alone.
Was loneliness his inevitable fate?Being a rake didn’t fulfill any deep passion.It passed the days.Or more precisely, the nights.It gave him a part to play in the society he lived in.When that role was gone, perhaps his part in society would disappear with it.Perhaps he would cease to matter, too.
He forced the thought away and returned his focus to Miss Mitchell.“Where do you see yourself in the future?”
Her eyes lit up at once.“In my laboratory, inventing something new.On stage, accepting an award for breakthroughs in science.In London, finally presenting my work to the Natural Philosophers Society.”
“You don’t do that now?”he asked in surprise.“I could picture you lecturing them every day of the week.”
Her smile turned brittle.“Membership is closed to lady chemists.”
“Imbeciles,” he said immediately.“Your left toe is more brilliant than any of those shortsighted fools.”
