Page 17 of A Wallflower Never Forgets
They watched the mother and her baby disappear into the woods. Melanie gave a little sigh of satisfaction.
“I shouldn’t have teased you. But it struck me while I was trying to get the fawn from the pond that this was the very pond I recall rescuing you from. And that,” Jonathan said, pointing to the large apple tree near them, “is the tree you climbed.”
“Guilty,” she said with a smile, her eyes shyly sliding away from his.
Once again, he fought the impulse to kiss this beautiful, amazing woman. He wished with every fiber of his being that he was able to declare himself. But he could not…not yet. He couldn’t risk hurting her. Instead, he took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Shall we head back?”
Chapter Seven
Midnight
Jonathan tossed and turned over and over in his bed—until he finally rolled and opened his pocket watch. The watch showed it was midnight. “Great,” he muttered, placing it back on the nightstand. He glared at the ceiling. “Another night when I can’t sleep.” It never failed. When something stressful plagued his thoughts, sleep evaded him. He thought that once he turned in Talbot and was no longer taking on missions for the Crown, these sleepless nights would end. But this time, it wasn’t a mission that had him restless, it was Melanie. He couldn’t shake the eerie feeling that something more was amiss. If something happened to her, he’d never forgive himself.
When he was a child, his mama made him warm milk when he couldn’t sleep. Maybe that would work. He wasn’t in an inn or other temporary lodging where gaining access to milk in the middle of the night would be a challenge. He was at Rochester’s manor home. A grin spread across his face as he swung his legs over the side of the bed and slipped into his slippers. He figured there might be other treats in the kitchen to enjoy along with his milk. After throwing on his banyan, he headed downstairs.
He saw a light glowing from the kitchen as he approached, along with the clinking of pots and pans. Could Cook be up late preparing for Lady Rochester’s birthday celebration? He slowed as he approached the door. Since he was here, he might as well get a cup of warm milk.
As he stepped into the room, the sight before him took him by surprise. Melanie was leaning over the wooden table, her hands industriously working a ball of dough, flour dusting her cheeks and hair like a whimsical mask. She glanced up, a surprised look breaking through the white cloud that enveloped her. She looked adorable.
“Have you secretly taken over the kitchen?” he asked, his voice thick with laughter. He never expected to find her here, immersed in such a domestic task. “Should we be concerned that you’re endeavoring to compete with Cook’s culinary prowess?”
“I wouldn’t dream of competing with Cook.” She giggled. “What are you doing here?”
“You first,” he said, momentarily distracted by the warmth in her velvety brown eyes and the sweetness of her smile.
“I just had an urge to bake. When I lived in Scotland, I learned how to cook. At first, it was just a distraction, but I found I enjoyed it—especially baking.”
“You…bake?” he asked, surprised.
“I do,” she said, smiling at him. “Nothing elaborate, mind you. But our cook in Scotland thought every woman should know how to make a few basic things. I loved making biscuits.”
He nodded thoughtfully at the lump of dough resting on the countertop. “Is that what you’re making?” he asked.
She looked down at the dough with a hint of pride and anticipation. “This? I hope it’ll taste like shortbread. It was the very first recipe Cook taught me,” she said, gently tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear and leaving another puff of flour on her cheek. “I thought it would be the easiest thing to make. After all, there are only a few ingredients…flour, butter, sugar, and salt.”
“Salt…in biscuits? That seems counterintuitive,” he remarked, arching an eyebrow in playful skepticism. Of course, he understood the reasoning behind it, but in this quiet moment, without anyone else around, he wanted to draw her out, to see her light up with her knowledge and enthusiasm.
As she smiled up at him, he felt a rush of joy. He had longed to spend time with her alone, savoring the intimacy of a stolen moment—knowing there was no one watching from a window or even a dog to worry about.
His gaze lingered on her appearance—her long, auburn braid cascading over her shoulder, with soft curls escaping to frame her face. Her large, doe-like eyes sparkled with mirth, crinkling at the corners in a way that made his heart do a series of somersaults. At that moment, he found it hard to concentrate on anything other than the warmth of her smile and the fullness of her rosy lips that beckoned to be kissed…
“Arf!” A sharp, look-at-me bark sounded.
Surprised, Jonathan looked down and spied Shep’s fluffy white head peeking from beneath her robe.
“Hello, Shep,” he said, reaching down and petting the small white dog. “So, we don’t have to fear anyone accusing you of being with me unchaperoned.” He laughed.
A pretty blush stained her cheeks. “No, I think Grandmama would approve.”
Her tinkling laughter danced through the air, reminding him of the delicate notes of his mother’s favorite windchime, each sound soft and enticing, lovely. It was a sound that conjured images of sparkling fairies, their joyous giggles floating on the breeze—a reminder of the warmth and comfort of his mother.
“Salt helps the biscuits brown and balances out the sweetness,” she said. “But you still haven’t told me.”
“Told you what?” he asked, trying to focus on what she was saying instead of how much he wanted to kiss her.
“Why you’re down here. At midnight,” she persisted, smiling.
He rubbed the back of his neck. “I couldn’t sleep, and my mother used to give me a cup of warm milk when I was a boy when I couldn’t sleep. It always worked. Thought I’d give it a try.”
