His face fell bleak. “Well, that’s it then. I’ll gather m’things. Forgive me, Ya Grace, fer–”
She held up a palm. “But your bread and the aroma of that stew are divine. So, present your finest meal tonight – nothing French – and we will talk again tomorrow.”
Aideen watched the chef’s eyes lighten. She knew hundreds from the Emerald Isle had come over, thinking the London streets were paved in gold. But the reality was equally grim. Blood and sweat lined these streets too – of strife and poverty and the hardship of war.
“Ta, Ya Grace. I’ll cook ya a fine bit o’ home, I will.”
“Wonderful. And one other issue…Monsieur Pascale Dupont.”
He coughed, eyes twinkling. “Er. Mr Padraig Duffy, at ya service.” And he bowed.
“Hmm. Please send up a light luncheon of that bread and then I’ll starve my stomach until tonight. We will also see about a book on French cuisine. No harm in adding another string to your fiddle, so to speak.”
The chef nodded and with a jaunty wink, headed back.
“And by the way,” Aideen called, “there are only three children, are there not? Or is it two, Padraig?”
A waggish grin crossed his handsome face. “Depends if ya include the one in the oven, Ya Grace.”
Evidently her fellow countryman didn’t need to kiss anything to talk blarney.
∞∞∞
Rakecombe felt…unsettled, odd and a dab nauseous.
And it wasn’t the food either. A perfect lamb roast had been presented tonight: tender cuts of meat – not bleating – with a fresh minty sauce, fluffy perfectly cooked potatoes and reassuringly normal-shaped carrots.
Vaguely, he wondered if Aideen had dismissed the French chef but didn’t ask. Couldn’t speak. Every word he thought to utter felt trite and banal after last night’s bestial act. So he quaffed more claret instead.
He hadn’t intended to dine at home as he’d wanted to visit Bluey, but the chap’s wife had sent a note saying he was insensible due to laudanum and to call on the morrow, so he’d been at a loose end.
When he’d returned from a meeting with Rainham, a note had been pinned to his bathing device, requesting his attendance at dinner. It wasn’t the words that had intrigued him, however, but how the hell that note had got there in the first place.
His chambers were always locked or Thorn was present. After all, he did occasionally have sensitive information in the safe. So how had Aideen managed to enter?
Stealing a glance, he then wished he hadn’t. She looked so very lovely.
Perhaps dining at home hadn’t solely been curiosity about the note’s placement, but a need to make sure she was well, that her eyes were not sad or hurt by his utterly uncivilised behaviour.
But she was obviously quite well. In fact, fairly stupendous and currently wittering on about replacing his study chair as it was far too old and uncomfortable for him to sit in.
Where was the anger he’d expected? The profanities and flashing ire? He’d anticipated nettle patch curses and furious obsidian eyes, but she was so cheerful it made his teeth ache.
A cerulean gown had been poured over her tonight, the silk tight and revealing, and although the majority of her hair was swept back, two fat coils were draped over her décolletage, ocean black against the luminosity of her skin.
The current unsettled feeling had arisen when he’d noticed the dark smudges on her neck as she’d bent to pour the mint sauce. Smudges he’d caused with his lips and teeth.
He’d taken his wife like a whore and the thought nearly brought up his lamb. Aideen deserved better than him, better than a foul, angry wreck that in turn shouted, ignored and then swived her in a bloody corridor as though she was his next breath.
Goddamn, she’d looked so sublime last night after his evening of blood and pain, and the past days of intense want had crashed over him.
Need, possession and all the sentiments he’d vowed never to feel for Aideen had surged as she’d stood her ground before him, wilfully declining to return to her bedchamber.
All this time, he’d tried so hard to stay away. To stand firm for her own safety, to live their lives apart, but one look from those coal eyes and all his vows had fled.
But throughout this self-admonishment, a part of him – located south of his belly but north of his knees – affirmed how very good it had been. How tight and eager her body had felt. How he himself hadn’t escaped unmarked as his neck still tingled from those sharp nails.
That was no excuse, however. His lie of not wanting her especially had no excuse.
