Page 44 of Lord Carlisle's Enticing Lure
Chapter Sixteen
Their days inClive’s lovely, quaint cottage were quiet, peaceful—and tense. Their nights, sleeping separately in the alcove off the great room, were a torment. He would lie on his side facing her, his gray eyes upon her until she fell asleep, his eyes open and staring at her when she awakened.
They spoke rarely, only out of necessity.
Did he want her to cook him oats for breakfast?
Did she wish to go with him down to the sea for a stroll or a swim?
Would she like another cognac?
Could she have his small things, please, to do the wash?
Giselle wished for more ease between them. It came one night when Clive began to laugh at a book he read.
“Will you read aloud to me?” she asked him, eager for the mellifluous sound of his deep voice to fill the soft night air and calm her weary heart.
When he did, she fell asleep in her chair. The next morning, she awoke in her bed, snuggled in blankets, fully dressed.
Clive Davenport was an ethical man who filled her soul with longing.
She covered her desires with activity.
When she wasn’t at her easel, she was in the kitchen. Each morning, Mrs. Campbell brought them beautiful baskets of fresh-pickedwinter turnips, potatoes, spring lettuces, radishes, cucumbers, and a few early tomatoes. Admiring the wealth of vegetables in the wicker basket, Giselle let her memory fly back to her youth, when she spent hours in her parents’ kitchen. And later in her own, she had continued when she sought solitude and safety from her demanding and often cruel husband. Just as in art, she controlled what she created. She could walk into a fantastical cloud of transforming simple ingredients into mouth-watering delicacies—and get lost.
With flour, eggs, and cream, Giselle made flan. With cherries, she made a cake so light and sweet, she had tears in her eyes at the memory of such a cake she’d made for her father.
She whipped eggs to a froth as if she stirred the winds over the earth. She molded pie shells into elegant shapes of flowers and animals, baked them to a pretty golden brown with apples or pears or raisins and dates melding together in heady aromas and sinfully tasty treats. They had honey cakes and smooth breads.
One day she decided to tackle her favorite pastry. Years ago in Blois, she had devoted herself to making a confection of a thousand layers dripping with thick cream and ganache. It had taken her months of trial and error, remeasuring and calculations, but she had triumphed and conquered the pastry. Now, with success in hand from the simpler dishes she made, she tried again on themillefeuille.
It took her eleven days to get it right. Finished with her work for the day, she would take up the recipe. Her hair slipping from her pins, her cheeks dotted with flour, her lips covered in sugars, she was happy to serve Clive her wares each night, even if she’d not yet perfected the recipe.
Clive—good man, his mouth full, eyes widened or rolling in ecstasy—could barely find words to describe how he loved the various forms of the delicacy. She would preen, tickled that she progressed in its creation, thrilled at his delight in it.
She did justice, too, to other treats that Mrs. Campbell broughtthem. A leg of lamb Giselle studded with garlic and fresh herbs. The roast filled the little cottage with the aromas that denoted springtime and renewal. She made potato fritters and pork cutlets. Cabbage slaws with carrots. Stews of beans and onions with beef or chicken. Each new dish filled her with pride. Clive filled her with compliments.
He became her assistant. Taking instruction from her, he’d wash the vegetables, measure flour and sugar, and even learned how to slice on the diagonal to preserve flavor. What she produced stunned him with the flavors and variety—and he told her so without end.
One week later, Mrs. Campbell, cheery soul, had brought round the morning’s freshly picked lettuce, spinach, and onions. Bright-red strawberries too came from somewhere close by. Giselle did not ask for details. She settled her hands on her hips and thought of how she could make a meal from the produce.
“A feast,” Clive said as he came to stand behind her in the little alcove that served as their small kitchen. His warmth flowed into her from his attitude and his words. The fragrance of his cologne filled her lungs with a desire to turn and kiss their conflict away.
“I think so,” she told him, and wished to give him in return the peace he engendered. What little she had to offer was another of her skills in the art of cooking. “A salad for lunch. For dinner, the potatoes and onions, a bit of cream to make a pie.”
“I can peel the potatoes for you.”
She had taught him how yesterday. He was always ready to help, but at this, he was all thumbs. She had teased him that he might well use his long, sharp Italian blade and do a better job. He’d given her a sidelong glance and said he’d use it better to stick a potato on the end and roast it. She had to smile at that, and he noticed, his mellow gaze dropping to her lips.
She licked her lower lip.
He imitated her.
She spun away. “Mr. Campbell is late this morning.” The manusually came around ten. The sun had long been up. “You don’t suppose something is wrong, do you?”
“We are secluded here, Giselle. Campbell probably has an errand. He will come and I will go out for my patrol.”
He went three to four times a day, taking his pistol and his nasty stiletto. Mr. Campbell stayed with Giselle as Clive did his rounds. But at all other times, the man kept watch from his and his wife’s cottage down the lane. Clive and his man had devised a schedule so that each saw the other pass in view at least once an hour.
