Page 11 of Dukes Do It Better
“I didn’t realize I had dough on my nails. Flour gets everywhere, doesn’t it?”
When she removed her hand from his clasp, Malachi frowned. Embarrassing her hadn’t been his intention.
Flour. Dough. “You bake?” Malachi stared at the adorable blonde before him. She was the daughter of a marquess. Why the hell was she in the kitchen? The thought wasn’t distasteful—just the opposite. Certainly a surprise.
She picked at the dried dough with her thumbnail, then straightened her shoulders as if admitting to baking was an act of defiance. “I find it relaxing. Not to mention rewarding to eat something you created with your own hands. Pies are my favorite, but I’m proficient in baking most things these days.”
An image arose in his mind of her in a kitchen, rolling out dough, surrounded by the scent of baking sugar. In his fantasy, a dusting of flour—no. Sugar. It should definitely be sugar streaking her smooth cheek, begging his mouth to kiss off the sweetness. If her damned brother wasn’t looming five feet away, he’d have risked bringing her fingers to his mouth for a taste.
“What were you making this morning?” he asked, instead of telling her she was extraordinary.
“Ginger biscuits. They’re Alton’s favorite. Cal finished off the last batch, so I made more to appease the tiny tyrant.” She said it with such a sweet smile, the love she had for her son temporarily stole his breath.
Malachi’s mother had never spoken of him in such a way. And she sure as hell had never baked his favorite biscuit in the massive, ancient kitchens of Stonewill Hall. If pressed, Mother might confess to entering the kitchens on official business a half dozen times over the years. But to actually bake? Preposterous.
Some response seemed called for, as a basic rule of conversation if nothing else, but it took two rough swallows to make room in his throat for words. “You’re a great mother to do so, Emma.”
Going from burgeoning desire to thoughts of his mother within such a short time was a journey he didn’t want to take twice. While he’d arrived with thoughts of seduction—or establishing the opening for it, anyway—now his mind filled with images of her baking biscuits for her son. Merging the two together in his head was a new experience.
“May I call on you again? Or perhaps I’ll see you at an event soon and we can further our acquaintance.” Out of the corner of his eye, Lord Eastly slumped back in his chair.
“I don’t get a voice in this questionable friendship, do I?” Calvin asked, staring up at the ceiling in comedic defeat.
“No,” Malachi and Emma said together, exchanging a grin.
Damn, her dimples could fell a man. Take him out right at the knees if a gent wasn’t careful.
“You’re always welcome to call.” Those dimples deepened; her plump bottom lip was shiny after she swiped her tongue across it, distracting him for a moment. An instant zing under his skin reminded him of why he’d chosen to visit this morning.
Emma was a dangerous beauty in a slightly chaotic package. Alarm bells signaled in his brain like the warning cries of centuries of sailors who’d fallen to sirens before him. With a nod of farewell to the siblings, he left.
Sliding his gloves on, Malachi donned his hat and stepped into the bustle of Hill Street.
A smile slipped over his face as he paused to let a carriage roll past. His personal life was a mess, his professional life was teetering on the brink of extinction, and the blond widow in the house behind him made him smile despite it all.
Emma was temptation personified. And Malachi? Well, he never had been keen on resisting temptation and didn’t see any reason to begin now.
Chapter Four
If you’d told me five years ago my closest friends would be a cook, a maid, a reluctant countess, and a goat, I’d have sent you off to Bedlam. I’m particularly fond of the goat.
—Journal entry, February 22, 1824
Madame Bouvier greeted Emma, Phee, and Lottie with the wide smile of a woman who knew her purse would be heavier by the end of the hour.
“Lady Amesbury, I have the most divine garnet silk that would set off your coloring to perfection. The bolt isn’t even on the sales floor yet.” The modiste snapped her fingers and an employee hurried to join their group. “Jillian, please fetch the red watered silk from the latest shipment.” Madame Bouvier turned back to the ladies. “Lady Eastly, your order is ready if you want to look it over before I send it out with the deliveries. Although, this morning I received a length of satin the exact color of spring onions, and I thought of you. Now, there isn’t a lot of it, so I thought to fashion it into accessories. Since this green would complement so many items in your order, I simply had to mention it.”
Phee grinned, no doubt at the obvious sales pitch. “I trust you, Madame. Add the accessories to my order.”
Not that Emma faulted Madame for it. This was her livelihood, and she was an artist. When Emma stepped to the side to let her friends take care of their business, her eye caught on a flash of color tucked into an orderly stack of fabrics against the wall.
A bolt of apricot shot with copper threads seemed to glow in the sunny shop. It was impossible to resist running a finger over the smooth surface. Satin and decadent. Heavy enough to drape beautifully. A wistful sigh escaped before she could catch it.
Phee sidled up beside her. “That would be a beautiful ball gown. Imagine candlelight on those threads. You’d sparkle, Em. Citrine and gold pins in your hair, I think, but minimal jewelry. Let the dress be the statement.”
Emma chuckled. Once upon a time, she’d had to beg and plead to get Phee into a modiste’s shop, and now her best friend was instigating a ball gown purchase for a woman who lived in the middle of nowhere. “It is gorgeous. But I have no need for another ball gown in Olread Cove.”
“How fortunate you aren’t in Olread Cove, then,” Lottie said, joining them. “That is exquisite, isn’t it?” She stroked the bolt of satin. “Emma, if you don’t make a ball gown from this, it would be a crime.”
