“Madam,” he tried politely, “I insist you let me in. I need to speak with the owner of this establishment.”
“You are looking at her,” she snapped, “and I’ve already told you that my school of cookery will have nothing to do with a man of your reputation. Now, please leave.”
Tenacious wench.
He pushed against the door, overpowering her with ease, and stepped inside, closing it at his back. “There we are. This is a much better way to conduct business, do you not agree?”
Her lips thinned to a firm, grim line that made him think about kissing them to restore their fullness. “You cannot be here.”
Rhys grinned, immensely entertained by her icy disdain. “And yet, here I am.”
Footsteps sounded then, scurrying into the entry. A bespectacled woman with white hair surged into view. “My lady, forgive me. I sent Mr. Lucas for more ice, or he would have been at the door.”
My lady?The luscious termagant before him grew more intriguing by the moment. This bit of information could certainly be used to his advantage.
“Don’t fret, Mrs. Kirkeland,” his reluctant hostess told the older woman. “You may return to your duties. I shall see to my guest.”
“Of course, my lady.” The woman bobbed, her dark skirts fluttering, before she disappeared again.
He turned back to the beautiful woman who was glaring at him as if he had just flung horse dung all over her entryway.
“Please leave, Your Grace,” she said sternly.
“After you give me an audience, I’ll do as you like,” he said reasonably.
Rationally.
Because he had come here to offer the silly woman a fortune. And she was attempting to toss him out on his ear.
“I have already informed you that I have no wish for an association between yourself and my cookery school,” she said primly.
“And I have a thousand pounds that says you will change your mind after you hear what I have to say,” he countered.
She stared at him, her mouth still compressed, unsmiling and unspeaking. Until finally, she relented, nodding with the regal air of a queen. “Very well. Follow me, Your Grace.”
Without waiting for his response, she turned and swept from the entryway in a glide of dove-gray skirts. He prowled after her, a predator intent upon his prey. It was a testament to herculinary prowess that he was here, but he wouldn’t allow her the upper hand. Not for a second.
Even if her prowess was the stuff of legends. He knew because he’d tasted it.
He had made the startling discovery purely by coincidence. A fortnight ago, he had been to a small, private dinner gathering where his hostess had proudly served a confection calledcornets à la crèmefor dessert. The apple and ginger cream ice had been a decadent delight when paired with a crunchy cornet decorated with chopped pistachios and royal icing. He’d never had anything quite like it, and neither had the rest of his fellow guests.
Rhys had politely inquired after the origin of the course, unique in addition to being delicious. The dish was a novelty that he had instantly known would be perfect for the indecent house party he would be hosting soon. His hostess had been annoyingly tight-lipped about the cornets until she had finally admitted their origin: a cookery school in Marylebone.
Finding the school had been easy. Finding its elusive owner had not. Time was running low, however, and so was Rhys’s patience. He was bloody well going to have thecornets à la crème, and she was going to have to accept it.
Because once the Duke of Whitby settled his mind on something he wanted, he didn’t stop until it was his.
Lady Miranda Lenox,formerly the Countess of Ammondale, present owner of the Lenox School of Cookery, had made a great many mistakes in her life. But she had risen from the ashes of her failed marriage, and she was determined not to make another. Which was why she intended to chase the scandalousDuke of Whitby from her precious school by any means, fair or foul.
There was the rather unfortunate matter of the thousand pounds he had dangled before her, a tidy sum she could put to excellent use if it were hers. But she would not allow monetary concerns to sway her. She would instead permit him to have the audience with her he had been so set upon having. And then when he had concluded his arrogant demand, she would tell him, unflinchingly, no.
No, no, no. Never. Absolutely not.
That must be her answer for this man. Forallmen. For the rest of her life.
She skirted the small, chipped desk she had commandeered for her personal use in her office—a place of private magic and infinite rejoicing, a space that was finallyhersalone—and forced her countenance to remain serene as she faced the Duke of Whitby.
He was infernally handsome. Golden-haired, with an angular jaw and high cheekbones, a strong blade of a nose and a divot in his chin. He had lips that were too full for a man, tipped with a slight hint of smugness, as if he were infinitely entertained by the plebians surrounding him or perhaps privy to some deliciously witty secret. His shoulders were broad, his waist lean, and he was taller than Miranda, which was impressive since she had forever mourned her unladylike height.
