He’d followed her without conscious volition. The withdrawal of her hand seemed an unbearable loss, and he was driven to regain her proximity, her touch, the feel of her skin against his. But when he saw what she was cooking, the purely physical need to be near her was enhanced by a tug on his emotions. She was making something she believed he liked. The fact that she had risen in the middle of the night to prepare whatever those things were called made him feel…cared for. Which was absurd since she was, after all, a servant hired to cater to his tastes.
“May I have one?” he asked, reaching out.
As she put the tray down on top of the cast-iron range she lightly slapped his hand aside.
“Not yet. They’re too hot. You’ll burn yourself. Besides, they’re not ready.”
On a mischievous impulse he tried to reach around her to grab one of the pastry puffs. She turned and stood in front of the tray, hands on her hips, a forbidding frown creasing her brow, belied by a glint of laughter in her glance.
“Please,” he asked, moving close to crowd her. She was tall for a woman, but with only a few inches of space between them the advantage of his height was exaggerated. She had to tip her head up to meet him eye to eye, and there was something about the stubborn set of her dimpled chin that made him gleeful.
“Please,” he repeated, like a small boy begging for sweets. In a lightning move he tried to sidestep her to snatch one of the delectably scented golden puffs. She was too quick for him and seized his marauding arm in a surprisingly strong grasp.
“Non, méchant,” she said. “You are very naughty, my lord. Now go and sit down again and wait. They’ll be ready soon enough.”
For the moment he gave in and obeyed her. From his seat at the kitchen table he kept her under surveillance, pondering another attack. She gave a pot on the stove a good stir, then poured cream from a jug into a bowl on the table, a few feet from where he sat. Then his mind emptied of any notion of stealing pastry.
With a contraption that resembled a small stiff broom, she briskly whipped the cream. Through the sleeve of her shift he could see the taut muscles of her right arm at work. But what riveted his attention was once again the outline of her unconfined breasts. They gently jiggled as she moved, begging him to place his hands around them and discover if they were as firm and shapely as they appeared. The sight deadened his brain and had quite the opposite effect on his nether regions. It wasn’t the first time since he’d met Jane Castle that he was tempted to end a long dry period without a woman. But it was the first time he’d seriously considered doing something about it.
He stared as though mesmerized as the cream rose thick and fluffy in the bowl and she deftly sifted and beat in sugar. Then she gave the mixture a final stir and took a dollop from the whisk on her forefinger. Momentarily distracted from her breasts, his eyes followed the finger as she inserted it between perfectly bowed red lips and sucked it clean. Mentally he moaned.
Perhaps the noise wasn’t just mental. She looked at him curiously. Apparently she saw nothing amiss and smiled in a friendly manner.
“Nearly there,” she said. “Are you hungry?”
“Yes,” he said hoarsely, unable to utter another word. He stopped noticing what she was doing. He was aware only of her body and her lips and a desperate need to possess her. The tiled floor of the kitchen was an unwelcoming surface for dalliance. Eyes momentarily distracted from the focus of his lust—why hadn’t he realized before that breeches were such alluring garments on a female?—he considered the table. As large as a good-sized bed. Not as comfortable but with distinct possibilities. He imagined laying Jane Castle down on it, and found the vision more than pleasing. He fixed his glance on the object of his hunger and awaited his opportunity.
Her voice interrupted his planning. “Just a minute or two for the caramel to cool, then we can eat.”
The matter-of-fact tone acted on his fevered yearning. Not like cold water—it would take an entire bathful of the stuff to do that—but perhaps like a cool shower of rain. What the hell are you thinking? he asked himself. Seducing a servant in a kitchen was very far from his usual sexual modus operandi. Past liaisons had been conducted in opulent love nests with well-paid courtesans. If he had any sense he’d stand up and keep walking, without looking back until he reached the safety of his own rooms.
Staggering uncomfortably to his feet, he again tightened the sash of his robe.
“It’s late,” he said brusquely. “I should go back upstairs.”
“Oh no!” she objected. “You must have a taste before you go. They’re at their best when fresh from the oven.”
Jacobin wasn’t going to let him leave without sampling her pastry. It would be wiser to let him go. She’d had enough experience evading the advances of back-door visitors at her uncle’s house to suspect that his intentions were seductive. But her professional mettle had been aroused.
She picked up one of the cream-filled puffs in its glossy caramel cloak and stood in front of him. He swayed backward, refusing the proffered morsel. With reckless audacity she moved closer and placed it to his lips. He took a bite, and her fascinated eyes followed the motion of his stubbled jaw and exposed throat as he consumed it. She could almost taste it with him: the light, spongy pastry for texture; the richness of the cream; the darker, more intense sweetness of the caramelized sugar, taken from the fire at the very brink of burning.
“Delicious. I can see you haven’t exaggerated your talents.” His lips parted in demand, so she popped the rest of the puff between them, removing her fingers just before they were captured by his closing mouth.
“I’m glad you’re satisfied.”
These artless words—or perhaps the perfection of her pastry—seemed to affect his voice. “What are these things really called?” he croaked, staring at her so intently her very bones quivered.
“In French they are profiteroles. Little puffs made from pâte à chou and filled with crème chantilly. Chou is also the French word for ‘cabbage.’ Petit chou—‘little cabbage’—is an endearment often used toward children.”
She was babbling, she knew. Anything to take her mind off the nearness of a large male clothed in a dressing gown and who knew what, or how little, else. Something, perhaps the scent of his skin, indefinable and enticing, had scrambled her brain.
“Do you want another?” she asked huskily. He nodded and popped one in his mouth, concentrating on the rich little wisp. She helped herself to one too. She bit carelessly and the inevitable happened: cream spewed from the overstuffed puff over her lips and chin. She could even feel a small cold blob on the tip of her nose.
Now she had all his attention.
“You’ve made a mess,” he chided. “Let me help you.”
Arms encircled her waist, and she felt a tongue delicately lick the end of her nose.
“Mm, sweet,” he murmured, then lowered his mouth to gather the remainder of the chantilly from her lips. Her tongue, engaged on the same mission, clashed with his, and his heat, mingling with the cool cream, was not unpleasant.
Quite the contrary.
She had to admit to herself that she’d wanted to kiss the Earl of Storrington. The reality was even better than her unconscious anticipation. Thought vanished into a vanilla haze as he deepened the embrace, plundering her mouth and drawing her body to his chest. It was unlike any kiss she’d ever experienced. She responded fervently, pulling his head closer with eager hands that laced through his hair and traced the shape of his skull.
His hands were busy too, massaging her back through the muslin shift, then descending to press her against him. She could feel his erection, alarmingly hard, but apprehension disappeared in a sensual wave, powerful enough to submerge any doubts. Her inarticulate mind reveled in contradictory sensations of delicious danger and a safety such as she’d rarely felt in years.
“Sweetness,” he murmured against her mouth, then renewed his assault. She didn’t know whether it was an endearment or a comment on the cream. Neither did she care. All she knew was that this was where she was meant to be, what she’d been born to do.
Now his face was buried in her neck, kissing and nipping the sensitive skin and sending lightning darts throughout her body that focused in a sweet, hot ache between her thighs.
“You feel so good,” he whispered. Large hands were pulling at the shift tucked into her breeches.
“Yes!” she urged, yearning for those hands to find her bare skin. “Oui, mon chou.”
Why had he stopped? She wanted him to touch her now.
His arms hung at his sides as he drew back. He looked stricken.
“I’m sorry, so sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. It shouldn’t have happened.” Turning from her, he hurried to the door.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated as he left.