“Of course.” She reached into her apron pocket, took out a brittle bit of paper, and held it out to him. He drew closer, his fingers brushing her softer ones, still slightly sticky from the dough.
He took the paper, and yes, there it was, so faded now it was nearly unreadable, but he knew his grandmother’s handwriting, and if there’d been any doubt, his name was scrawled right across the top.
There was no mistaking it, this little piece of his grandmother, and his mother as well, right in the palm of his hand. For an instant, he had a profound urge to clutch the scrap of paper to his chest, but he held it back out to Miss St. Claire, clearing his throat. “You, ah, you made the biscuits for me, then?”
It was a foolish question, perhaps, yet it seemed incredible she should have done him such a kindness when he’d been anything but kind to her.
But she merely shrugged, the small smile still playing about her lips. “It’s nothing so marvelous, Your Grace. Once I found the recipe it was a simple enough matter to make them, and so I did. Anyone else would have done the same.”
Would they? No, he didn’t think so. No one had ever done anything like this for him before. He stared at her without speaking, because not a single word came to his lips. He might have thanked her—yes, that would have done nicely—but it didn’t seem adequate, somehow.
But she didn’t seem to expect a thank-you, or anything else. “I have a batch of biscuits in the oven nearly ready to come out. Will you stay and have some?”
“I—yes, of course.” How could he not?
He seated himself on the bench to one side of the table. She returned to her dough and a silence that should have been awkward stretched out between them. He didn’t speak—he’d never been one for idle chatter, and there was a strangely tenacious lump in his throat—but sat quietly, the warm, rich scent of treacle and ginger wrapping around him as he watched her work the dough, her small, dainty hands a blur of motion.
She laid out another tray with tidy rows of biscuits, and walked them to the stove, fetching the first tray out before sliding the new one in. When she returned to the table, she bore a plate with biscuits piled high in the center, a mouthwatering curl of steam rising from them.
“Here we are, Your Grace.” She set the plate in the center of the table, then returned to the stove and fetched a tray holding two silver cups and a silver chocolate pot. She put the tray next to the biscuits, then slid into the chair across from his.
“Ginger biscuits,andchocolate?” His grandmother had always served her ginger biscuits with chocolate, as well, and his mother had continued the tradition. The two treats were inextricably linked in his memories, but he hadn’t mentioned chocolate at the pond today. Unless Miss St. Claire was some sort of sorceress, she couldn’t possibly have known it.
Though looking at her now, with the glow of the lamplight framing her face and gilding her hair, he could almost believe shewasa sorceress. She was certainly not like any other young lady he’d ever known.
But she only shrugged. “They go together quite nicely, do they not?”
“They do.” He nodded at the silver pot. “I didn’t realize I owned a chocolate pot.”
“I don’t believe it’s ever been used before. Rather a pity, really, as it’s a pretty one.” She cocked her head, considering the pot for a moment, then nudged the plate of ginger biscuits closer to him. “Biscuit, Your Grace?”
He reached for one. They were still warm, thick, and dense, but soft enough that he might leave his thumbprint in them, as he’d done as a child. They were just as they should be, the butter slick under his fingertips, the scent teasing his nose.
And, dear God, thetaste.
The snap of the ginger, the dark sweetness of the treacle . . . he closed his eyes, and for an instant he was a little boy again, sitting at the table with his mother and grandmother, his fingers and toes still numb from his play outdoors, the spicy taste of ginger nipping at his tongue.
Neither of them spoke. He kept his eyes closed, living inside the memory while it lasted. Across from him, Miss St. Claire didn’t speak either, only munched quietly on her own biscuit.
But when he opened his eyes again, she was watching him, a faint line between her brows and her lower lip caught between her teeth. “Are they as you remembered them, Your Grace?”
He gazed at her through the gloom. “They’re perfect.”
And they were. Not just their scent, or the flavor of them melting against his tongue, but perfect in the way a thing could only be if it was done utterly unselfishly.
“I’m glad.” She nodded and rose to her feet, picking up the tray and taking it with her.
There was nothing for him to do then but rise as well, and make his way to the kitchen door. But he paused halfway there and turned back to her, and the next thing he knew, he’d taken her hand in his. “Thank you, Miss St. Claire, for . . .” He searched for the proper words, but they didn’t come. How did you thank someone for giving you back a piece of yourself you’d thought was gone forever? “Thank you.”
She smiled. “You’re most welcome, Your Grace.”
He raised her hand to his mouth. It was fleeting, not a kiss so much as a brush of his lips across her knuckles, but he lingered long enough to inhale her, to feel the silky glide of her skin against his lips.
It was long enough to snatch a shuddering breath from his lungs, to weaken his knees. Long enough to make him do something exceedingly foolish—something he never would have done if he’d been in his right mind, but with the soft glow of the lamplight on her face, the sweetness lingering on his tongue, and the scent of ginger swirling in his head, it was as if he’d stepped into another world, one she’d weaved around him with an act of pure kindness.
He eased her closer, her skirts brushing his pantaloons, ducked his head, and let his lips touch hers. She let out a soft gasp, her hands flying to his chest. “I . . . Your Grace . . .”
He waited, a shuddering breath on his lips, expecting her to jerk back, to push him away, but the seconds ticked by, and she only gazed up at him, her eyes a dark, stormy green, her fingers pressed against her lips as if holding his kiss there.
