Any hunger you are currently suffering from.
Had he intended the secret meaning to his words? Her gaze studied him, melding with his for a brief moment. It was a moment where their connection became so visceral and undeniable, she could not catch her breath.
But she had to.Inhale. Exhale. Calm thyself.
“No tray will be necessary.” She sent him her sweetest smile, swinging her gaze to the befuddled manservant who awaited Mr. Kirkwood’s response at the threshold separating the office from the den of iniquity. “I shall dine alongside everyone else.”
“That would not be—”
“Mr. Kirkwood, I am afraid—”
“I wish to gamble,” she announced, seizing upon the idea. With an audience, she was certain she could manage to convince Mr. Kirkwood to join her in any endeavor. “If you will not feed me, then perhaps you will lead me to the hazard table?”
“No.” His answer was clipped. Dripping with an air of finality.
She raised a brow, both inwardly and outwardly. “I do beg your pardon.No?”
“No,” he confirmed darkly before seeming to recall their audience. “That is to say, perhaps I shall escort you there if I’ve the time. Remain here and I will return.”
How clever he must think himself. But she would not be denied this opportunity.
She pursed her lips and shook her head. “My use for this hall is decidedly at an end.”
He pinned her with a glare. “Is that so,my lord?”
“Yes, it is,” she challenged right back. “Mr. Kirkwood.”
“Sir?” the servant intervened, his expression as anxious as his tone. “I am afraid Monsieur may create a stir if he is allowed to continue unchecked.”
Another foul epithet emerged from Mr. Kirkwood. He bowed his head. Looked from his manservant to Frederica, and then back. “Very well. Lead the way, Hazlitt. My lord, do as you wish until I can rejoin you.”
Do as you wish.
“Yes.” She beamed at him, a new sense of excitement bubbling up within her. “I shall.”
He muttered something beneath his breath as they retreated from the hall, and she swore it sounded likethat is what I fear.
Naturally, she ignored it. She would make the most of her time within the walls of his club. After all, her writing was her first and only love. There was not room for scornful owners of gentleman’s clubs. No room at all.
Chapter Seven
The minx wasgoing to borrow trouble, and he knew it. His mind should have been concerned with the possibility his chef was on the cusp of alienating an earl with deep pockets and a penchant for gambling poorly. Ordinarily, he would be calculating how much he earned from Lord Greaves’ gambling losses and endless hunger for quim in a year and measuring it against Monsieur Levoisier’s wages per annum, calculating how much of an attraction the proclaimed French was for his patronage, estimating the cost of procuring another, equally refined chef to keep his patrons well fed and sated. Balancing cost and reward, weighing the outcomes.
His mind adored facts. Ledgers gave him an odd sense of peace—numbers were familiar and comforting, and watching them add and grow without subtracting had long ago become a favored pastime. To a lad who had grown up picking pockets for coin and spending many a night with an empty belly, those growing figures represented the unattainable—stability. Happiness.
Raised voices reached him as he approached the dining room, and he winced, reminding himself he had matters of far greater import requiring his attention. Lady Frederica Isling could remain where he had damn well told her to remain, or he would bar her from further entrance to his club. Indeed, he ought to bar her altogether after her foolish request and his equally witless acceptance of the gauntlet she’d thrown.
Why had he kissed her? When could he do it again?
Beelzebub’s banyan.
“The soup bloody well requires salt.” The agitated proclamation of Lord Greaves echoed through the dining hall as Duncan crossed the threshold.
Monsieur’s face was flushed, his lip curled. The man was as volatile as he was gifted, but Duncan employed him for his culinary brilliance and not for his Gallic temper. He strode forward, Hazlitt at his heels, intent upon dousing this rather unwanted, ill-timed fire.
He had to thrust all thoughts of one midnight-haired lady from his mind.
“The soup isparfait, my lord,” Levoisier spat. “Adding salt isinconcevable. The great masters, do you think they added more paint to their canvas, ruining it with too much pigment?Non.They knew perfection.Alors, you must admit too much ofune bonne chosedestroys that which isdéjà—”
