Chapter 3
Chapter 3
One afternoon, Bea heard voices in the front of the shop, and then the bell ringing as the door closed. She heard Ivy cross to the doorway to the kitchen. Glancing at the clock, Bea guessed it was the last customer of the day, the reliable Mr Marley.
“Ivy,” she called out. “If Mr Marley is gone, close up the…” Bea trailed off.
It wasn’t Ivy in the doorway.
She knew it was him, though she knew nothing of Mr Forrest. He was rather tall, perhaps six feet. But his thin frame made him look less substantial than he ought to. His coat hung a bit loosely. His left hand rested on a brass-topped cane, which was not an affectation. (Among other tidbits of information gleaned from Mr Marley, Ivy had informed her that Mr Forrest had been injured and almost died during the war, and that was before he’d been captured and imprisoned by the British forces.)
But none of that could take away from one central fact. Mr Forrest was gorgeous. His dark hair was worn a bit longer than was fashionable. He was clean shaven, perhaps because there was no reason to hide such an irritatingly perfect jawline. And then his eyes…
He had unfairly beautiful eyes, a shade of brown so light it almost looked like gold. And worse, there was something soulful about them, as if he saw much more than most people. Beatrice didn’t want to think about what he might see in her.
Beatrice swallowed painfully. “Mr Forrest, I presume.”
“Miss Holliday,” the man said.
“I don’t allow customers in my kitchen,” she said finally, alarmed at how fragile her voice sounded.
Ignoring that, he stepped in, looking around with considerable interest. “You work in here alone?”
“Ivy helps, and I hire a girl to clean and wash up. Where is Ivy, by the way?”
“She’s on a short walk, escorted by Mr Marley. Don’t worry, she locked the front door before she left.”
“How reassuring,” Beatrice said dryly.
He was still looking around. “Large kitchen for one person.”
“It’s a business, not a home.” She spoke stiffly, already anticipating…well, she wasn’t sure. But she did not like Mr Forrest being here.
He shifted his attention to her. “You don’t want to speak to me. Why?”
She felt her skin warming uncomfortably as she recalled she had flour on her nose, raspberry preserves on her apron, and that a curl of hair had escaped her cap. “It’s nothing personal.”
“It feels quite personal. Do you think me presumptuous?”
Beatrice retorted, “You did stroll into my kitchen uninvited.”
“Ah, there’s the truth,” he said. But before she could respond, he asked, “Where did you learn to bake?”
“Paris. I worked under several chefs of considerable repute.”
“Why?”
She blinked in confusion. “Why? Because one ought to study under the best possible teachers, and that means one goes to Paris to cook!”
“I meant why did you choose to learn a trade like this?”
Beatrice took a steadying breath, then said in an even voice, “I like good food.”
“Who doesn’t?” His gaze was keen, questioning. “But it seems rather unusual for a lady of your class, isn’t it?”
She frowned, not at all comfortable with the turn in conversation. “I thought no one in the States cared about class,” she said.
“Is that why you came here? To get away from all that?”
“I came here to start a business, a business with which you are currently interfering, Mr Forrest. It would be best if you left now.”
He raised one eyebrow. “You treat all your customers like this?”
“Only the ones who invade my kitchen.”
He lifted one side of his coat away from his body, showing his frame (or as much of his frame as the linen shirt allowed). “You might not believe it, but I’ve filled out considerably since I first ate your food. My doctor sends his thanks as well. Nothing he recommended worked. I wanted to thank you personally.”
And by refusing his invitation, she’d made this war hero come all the way to town to do so. Did she want to lose a customer, a good customer? What sort of businesswoman was she? She took a steadying breath, then said, “I am reclusive by nature, Mr Forrest. There’s a reason I hired Ivy to work the front while I stay out of sight. Today must be quite disappointing for you.”
“I’m not disappointed at all,” he said with an expression that was harder to read. “Though I’ll let you return to your work. What are you making next?”
“I must prepare an order for a party. I have to make the pastries for the cream puffs and then the filling for the raspberry tarts, and after that the maple buttercream to fill the chocolate bonbons.”
“All of that sounds magical, but I like the marzipan best,” he said with the air of confessing a great secret. “That was the first one of yours that I tasted. I couldn’t believe it was real.”
She felt a little glow at the acknowledgment. Her marzipan was very special. “Marzipan is made on Tuesdays.”
“I’ll be sure to order more on Wednesdays, then.” His smile came slowly, but with enough warmth to melt even the iciest demeanor. “What smells so good?” He pointed to a pot on the stove that was nearly bubbling over.
“Ah, that’s lemon curd. I use it in some pastries and cakes.” As she spoke, she reached over to stir the pot, and the thick, silky curd clung to the wooden spoon. “Oh, it’s done. You nearly distracted me, Mr Forrest.”
“And thus nearly ruined the batch? That would have been a hanging crime.”
He sounded so sincere that she couldn’t stop a smile. “Would you like a taste?”
“ Please .” His eyes lit up at the prospect.
Beatrice scooped a small portion of the lemon curd onto a bit of vanilla cake that she’d prepared, spreading it over the top with the back of the spoon. She offered it to Mr Forrest, and as he took it, their fingers touched. Even that brief contact gave her a strange jolt of pleasure. Or was that just due to watching him enjoy the taste of lemon and sugar and vanilla swirled together?
His eyes closed as he bit into the treat, and a look that could only be described as bliss spread over his face. He chewed and swallowed, then said, “Marvelous.”
“It is,” she agreed.
“I meant you’re marvelous, Miss Holliday. I could consume that whole pot.”
“You’d make yourself sick!” she said with a laugh. It was nice to hear praise for her work.
“A challenge I’m prepared to accept. I could eat that with anything.”
Beatrice was still laughing. “Don’t be absurd. Lemon wouldn’t pair well with most flavors.”
“I could eat it with any thing, Miss Holliday,” he repeated with more intensity in his eyes. It seemed that in wakening one sense in him, she’d also stirred another. And worse, she’d woken it in herself too, because she suddenly wanted to indulge in tasting all manner of things she should not…namely, him.
And the way he was sucking the last traces of lemon curd off his finger wasn’t doing anything to calm her down. Just looking at his lips circled around his finger made her want to lick her own lips.
He caught her gaze and stopped in the act, his own eyes widening for moment. He seemed to realize all at once that he wasn’t exactly behaving according to expectations. He pulled his finger out of his mouth, looking abashed. “Sorry. Forgot my manners.”
“You wouldn’t be the first,” she replied, thinking of children pressing their faces to the glass of the shop, but also more distant memories of certain men who put pleasure over propriety.
“I didn’t come to steal samples, I promise,” he said, now looking everywhere but at her. “You’ve refused when my secretary asked, so I thought I’d try a more direct plea. Would you come to Northwind?”
Beatrice instantly felt her guard go up. “For what purpose?”
“To cater a Christmas party, of course,” he replied with just enough surprise in his tone to make Beatrice embarrassed that she’d even thought he’d intended some sordid purpose…such as one that involved a bed, for example. He went on, “I mean to say, my household staff is competent when it comes to typical dishes, but in terms of fine desserts, their skills are nowhere near yours. When I host something, I want to do it properly. Christmas should be…magical. Like your creations.”
“Oh.” Beatrice felt the shame creeping up her face as she realized that she’d completely misread the man. “Yes. I would do that. Or Ivy would.”
“You. I mean, both of you,” he said immediately. “It would be a large affair.”
“How large?”
“However large it needs to be to require you both to be there.”
Beatrice rolled her eyes. Mr Forrest had an answer for everything.
Recalling how she ought to be behaving, she pointed to the doorway and ushered him out into the front of the shop. “This is where customers belong, Mr Forrest. If you hadn’t let your man abscond with Miss Shepherd, I’d have her take down the details of your event so we could plan for it.”
“It was not difficult to get her to go,” Mr Forrest admitted. “And I must say Mr Marley has been quite enthusiastic about buying the chocolates, not complaining once about being sent so often. Miss Shepherd must be the reason.”
“She has certainly made quite sure that the shop remains open until he arrives.” Beatrice sighed. “I suppose I am going to lose her soon, if this courtship continues apace. Young women always have their heads in the clouds when it comes to romance.”
“You don’t approve of romance?”
“Oh, it’s fine for Ivy,” Beatrice clarified, even as she wondered how they’d started talking about catering a party, yet now they were discussing romance. “She’s young and beautiful and she’s meant for marriage.”
“You speak as if you are not.”
“I am neither of those things, sir. I am twenty-eight, I know what I look like, and I have more scars than skin, thanks to my work in kitchens.”
Mr Forrest gave her a long, considering look, and then said, “You will permit me my own opinion, Miss Holliday.”
“As you like, sir. Now I must wish you good day.”
“Of course.” He took her hand in his, and raised it to his mouth. There was nothing unusual in that, exactly. Nor should his lips brushing her knuckles cause her heart to suddenly race and for her to want to lick her own lips in anticipation. He held her hand for a moment, studying it with interest. His fingertips traced a few tiny raised scars, relics of touching a hot stove or a cast iron pan without protection.
“As I said, I have scars from my work,” she said, feeling defensive.
“We both do,” he replied, his eyes rising to meet hers. “I don’t think I’d like a person without any.”
It was not what she expected to hear, but then, Mr Forrest had been surprising from the start. She said, “I really must attend to my curd.”
He smiled in total delight. “I’ve never been dismissed like that before. Then again, it’s been a while since I’ve gone out. But I’m glad I did today.”
He released her hand with obvious reluctance. “I look forward to seeing you at Northwind.” And with that entirely too confident pronouncement, he walked out.
After he left the shop, Noel couldn’t get Miss Holliday out of his head. He’d had no idea what to expect, even with Emmanuel’s reports. As it turned out, Emmanuel could recite every detail of what the shop assistant, Miss Shepherd, said or did, but not nearly as much about the actual owner.
But Miss Beatrice Holliday was intriguing all on her own. She was covered in flour, yet there was no hiding her origins, which must be far higher than a baker’s daughter. That crystal-cutting accent, the easy references to studying in Paris—not to mention that she had enough money to go into business for herself. What made her cross an ocean to do it, though?
And why was she alone? A woman so skilled and so striking must have attracted proposals by the dozen. Noel practically tripped at the doorway when he first saw her. She had a body begging to be touched, the curves that practically called to be cupped and fondled. And then, she had absolutely lovely coloring. Chestnut curls, astoundingly deep blue eyes, and her skin, pink and cream and incredibly smooth—no matter what she said about scars. Not to mention a mouth he now wanted to taste…
Oh, God, he’d nearly lost all sense of proportion when he’d kissed her hand in the kitchen. She smelled like lemon, the same aroma as the curd. He wasn’t even sure what he was saying for most of the time in her shop. He must have babbled something to get the chance to see her again, to be able to talk to her and understand why he felt so needy and ravenous the moment he saw her. And he kissed her hand, because he was mad to taste even a tiny bit of her, and he hoped to the Devil that he hadn’t scared her away. Noel hadn’t been very social over the past couple of years, but that was no excuse for acting like a complete savage.
But something about the mellow, silky feel and the tangy punch of the lemon curd had created such a hunger in him. He really did lose his manners in the lemon-induced ecstasy. And when he realized he was sucking the stuff off his finger in front of her, the thought that jumped at him was that he was sucking the wrong finger. He should have hers in his mouth, between his teeth. He wanted to spread the stuff all over her and lick it off. He wanted to lay her on a table and feast on her, exploring every inch of beautiful flesh. He could imagine her lush body with perfect clarity.
He should stop thinking of her that way immediately. Beatrice Holliday wasn’t for sampling. Even if her lower lip was delectable and plush and made for kissing. Christ, all of her was made for kissing.
Back at Northwind, he went directly to his studio. But instead of puttering around aimlessly as he did most days, he grabbed paints and brushes with determination.
Sitting down at the blank canvas was no longer intimidating. No, today he knew he would paint .
First, he swirled colors together, dabbing a little more red, a hint of ochre, a wash of white. He wasn’t sure what was emerging, but he recognized this feeling. It was inspiration, and more than that. It was the muse, guiding his hand and eye, helping him create the idea in his head on the canvas. He’d never told anyone that. It was too hard to explain and too precious to him. And after he got sick, he thought he’d never experience it again.
Until now, when it rushed back.
He dipped his brush in the first of the blended colors. He would just get a study down, a rough, hasty rendition that would only hint at the final piece.
He painted fast, not even looking at what he laid on the canvas. He kept blending, then teasing out shades and tones. All earthy, rich tones with reds and browns at the edges. What am I doing? he asked himself over and over.
Just paint , the muse urged . Don’t agonize over it. Just paint out whatever’s haunting you.
Nearly an hour later, his brush hand fell to his lap. He took a deep breath, exhausted. The muse vanished, her work now done. He stared in astonishment at the canvas before him.
Beatrice.
It was her. Miss Holliday. Not obvious, perhaps, to anyone but him. The study was all heavy, fast strokes, meant to guide later versions. But she was there, in the oils, a portrait from the shoulders up, her proud gaze burning through from the very center of the painting. There was her skin, the rose blooming under the lighter flesh of her cheeks. Luminous dark blue eyes, wet now from the fresh oils. Perhaps unsurprisingly, he’d painted her mouth with more detail, capturing the slight curve on the left side. The lips were just parted, as if to share a secret or accept a kiss. The lower lip glistened with a touch of wetness, a trick of the paint to seduce the eye into seeing so much more than was there.
Beatrice, smiling a tiny, secret smile at him, with the suggestion of dark curls around her face, her face that was flushed and vital with life and desire.
He looked away, almost ashamed at what he’d done. The real Miss Holliday would never look at him like this, with her eyes glowing, and her lips so ripe. She’d probably be offended at the mere existence of this study.
He should destroy it.
“After the paint dries,” he muttered. It was always so messy to slash a canvas when the oils were wet. Plus, he couldn’t bear to think of not being able to look at her.
Would she ever let him paint her, for real? And not a modest portrait like the one he’d just played with. A nude, with her as the model in all her glory. Her hair unbound, falling around her as she lounged on a couch, surrounded by flowers and fruits and confections, luxuries to match her luxurious form. She’d look right out from the canvas and capture the viewer with that gaze that hinted of sugar and lemon and secrets. A goddess allowing a mortal to see her and offer to worship her.