“I learned from one of the best flavor weavers that gilded power can buy.”
“You hired a master to teach you?”
“What master chef would teach outside of his school or family?” He lifted his glass and watched me over the rim.
“You attended the Gilded Spoon?” The academy would explain his kitchen skills, but not his current occupation.
“They have nothing to teach me.”
I raised a brow. “Some fancy gilded lady forced her chef to teach you in exchange for pleasure?”
I immediately knew it was the wrong thing to say, even in teasing, as his fingers tightened around the stem.
His smile spread, slow and sensual, and though it pulled at something low in my stomach, his eyes were emerald hard. “Of course. Isn’t that what would make sense, after all? Very perceptive of you, Marietta.”
Unlike his earlier playful compliment, this one held contempt.
“No. I meant to tease you in return.” I looked at my plate. With his ease in gaining favor from women and his tricks to manipulate them, the comment had been too easy. But the language in his eyes always told a different story in those interactions, and I had chosen to ignore that in order to be witty. “Isn’t it apparent why I am firmly headed for an unmarried shelf?”
The silence stayed unbroken for twenty ticks of the mantel clock.
“I’ve always liked the kitchens.” His voice was more reserved, and I already missed the extra note of affection he had begun to use with me. “They are warm and hidden. Owners and guests rarely enter. A chef took me under his wing when I used to run about underfoot. Put me to work.”
I bit my lip as he continued.
“It was a good place for me. I thought about pursuing that path, but events led to other things.”
“What types of other things?”
“This and that. Favors exchanged. New favors to use.” His gaze washed over me. His voice warmed. “I do believe I won our bet. Unfortunately for you, you did not specify the terms.”
The look in his eyes made the constant butterflies he churned take wing.
“The loser cleans the dishes, of course,” I said lightly, pushing the fluttering down.
He raised a brow, heat still sparking from his eyes beneath. “I will make sure to set the terms myself next time, but for just this once, I’ll comply.”
He moved to clear the dishes and cutlery and I moved to the basin. I washed each item and stuck it into a rack to drain. He pulled a cloth out to dry and we worked in a charged but comfortable silence until I placed the last dish in the rack.
“Where are we headed tonight?” I drew a finger down the edge of the rack in anticipation of his answer. Of what we might find. Or what we might need to do. Of what position I might find myself in.
“One would think you enjoy exploring the underbelly of the city.”
“Hardly the underbelly—we’ve barely stepped foot in the east.”
“For someone of your station, any area beyond Ember Square qualifies.”
“Says the man with the enormous house in Ember Square.”
“Says the man who didn’t always have that house. You, on the other hand, are used to the genteel aspects of life.”
If only. “I worked the spell line in secret and have needed to travel to various unsavory parts of the city to pay our bills.” I lifted my chin.
“I know.” His gaze gentled. “But there is a difference between gilded disgrace and true poverty.”
“Yes.” I looked down. “But the latter is where we are headed.”
He nudged me aside and washed a stray cup he had picked up from somewhere in the kitchen—one of his many coffee cups, to be sure—and placed it on the rack to dry. “The spell line is one of the many equality advancements in this new age. What did you do?”
