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“Did you enjoy yourself with Miss Clark?”
“I did, thank you. Where is Mama?”
She was quick to change topics, too.
Marianne adjusted the basket she still hid. “She is planning the menu with Mrs. Roberts.”
“I will join her.” She walked the opposite direction from where Marianne had been headed then paused. “But first, I have a proposition.”
Marianne tipped her head to the side. “And what proposition would that be?”
“If you do not tell Mama that I was with Miss Clark this afternoon, I will not tell her that you’ve been sneaking Cook’s pastries again.”
Marianne’s mouth dropped open, and she pulled her basket from behind her back. She needed to stop sneaking. She really was terrible at it.
“I suppose I have no choice but to agree,” she said. Should Mama discover her indulging again, Marianne would certainly receive another stern scolding. But then… “Why do you not wish for Mother to know you were visiting with the Clarks?”
Beatrice hesitated, then she stretched her lips in a smile. “I was supposed to be practicing the pianoforte.”
“Oh, I see.” But Marianne was not fully convinced. Beatrice was hiding something more. Then again, so was Marianne. “Very well. I accept your proposal.”
“Perfect.” Beatrice outstretched her hand, palm up as she wiggled her fingers. “Now you may compensate me for my excellent idea.”
Marianne huffed out an exaggerated sigh then slipped her hand beneath the cloth covering her basket. A moment later, she withdrew a cherry tart and extended it to Beatrice. “Here you are, madam. I do hope you will be satisfied.”
Beatrice took the tart and promptly bit into the pastry, backing away from Marianne. “I will never be satisfied with a single tart. Just like you.” Her eyes wrinkled slightly at the edges with her smile. “Now remember, not a word to Mother.”
Marianne nodded, watching her sister practically skip down the side corridor. That visit with Miss Clark had done wonders for Beatrice’s mood.
Now here was hoping Marianne’s tarts would do the very same for Mr. Steele.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Marianne paused just outside of the room. Was she utterly ridiculous for doing this? Should she leave matters as they were and simply hope Mr. Steele wouldn’t speak with Father?
“Have you come to spy again?”
She started at Mr. Steele’s voice. Blast it all. It was about time she’d learned her lesson about thinking she was being covert.
Slowly, she stood in the doorway. “No, not at all.”
Muted light from the heavily clouded skies streamed in through the large windows at the far end of the room, illuminating the carver, who stood on the fourth rung of a ladder that leaned against the bookshelf. His shirtsleeves were again rolled halfway up, and he held a tool in each hand. He’d been making steady progress on one side of the bookshelf, the design swirling more than halfway up the height of the shelves.
His eyes dropped to the basket in her hands. “Is there anything I can do for you today?”
His stern brow had lessened somewhat from what it had been at the cricket match, and a shadow of facial hair brushed against his jawline—a jawline so angled, it appeared to have been carved by the very tools in his very masculine hands.
“Ma’am?”
She blinked, forcing her eyes away from his features. “Yes, I hope you forgive my intrusion.”
He pulled his tools away from the wood and leaned his left arm against the ladder. His waistcoat was halfway unbuttoned, his cravat loosened enough to reveal the lower half of his throat.
She cleared her own throat and looked away. “I’ve been considering my actions lately and realized they may have been lacking in propriety. So, I thought I’d make amends by bringing you these.” She raised the basket, unveiling the pastries with her free hand. “I hope you enjoy them.”
Mr. Steele peered down at the basket, his lips twitching before he looked back up to her. “That is very kind of you. But you needn’t have gone to such trouble.”
She shrugged, stepping forward and placing the basket on the table beside his perfectly aligned tools. “Perhaps for one mistake. But I’ve made three.”
