Heiress in Love by Christina Brooke Page A

breakfast, you’re doomed to disappointment, I’m afraid.”
    Beckenham shrugged out of his greatcoat, allowing it to fall into the waiting hands of the butler. “Oh, don’t concern yourself, Roxdale. We breakfasted in the village.”
    “The village,” Constantine repeated.
    The duke smiled, slapping his gloves against his bare palm. “Yes. The King’s Head lays on a bang-up breakfast, does it not, Beckenham? We never miss it when we come to stay.”
    “They do have a way with bacon there, don’t they?” Beckenham agreed. “Something in the curing, I think. Quite splendid.”
    At the mention of bacon, saliva surged into Constantine’s mouth. His stomach gave a growl so audible that the duke raised his quizzing glass and lowered his gaze to Constantine’s midriff.
    Without a word, Constantine swung on his heel and headed into the bowels of the house. Bloody know-it-all Westruthers! Obviously, they were wise to the ways of this household as Constantine was not.
    If he married the Ice Maiden, he’d never be rid of the rest of her devilish family. They’d be crawling all over his house at will.
    Constantine jogged down the narrow, winding staircase that led to the kitchens and catapulted back to his childhood.
    Ah, this kitchen, with its chessboard floor and its big wooden table and the cooling bench by the window, where he’d swiped hot buns and ginger biscuits as a lad. The scent of baked bread and herbs and beeswax. And the warm, floury hugs of Marthe.
    Would she still be here? His spirits rose at the thought, light and warm as one of Marthe’s loaves.
    Not a soul in the kitchen. Constantine heard the clink of cutlery on china and the murmur of voices from the servants’ hall down the corridor. He’d intended to raid the larder, but that could wait. He had to see if Marthe was here.
    When he appeared at the doorway of the dining hall, the chatter and movement ceased like a snapped thread. The servants rose as one, with scraping chairs and a clatter of forks that had paused, suspended in the air between plate and mouth, when he walked in.
    He looked around. There were one or two familiar faces he couldn’t quite place. But at the foot of the table, one face stood out like a beacon, round, rosy-cheeked, and wreathed in a smile.
    He grinned. “Hallo, Marthe.”
    “Master Con!” His name, like a joyful prayer, galvanized him. He strode forward and plucked the middle-aged woman off her feet, swung her around.
    For which he received a soft cuff over the ear. “ Tiens, milor’! What’ll you be at now, to come down here where you’re not wanted?”
    “Marthe, it does my heart good to see you.” He glanced at the sideboard, which groaned with proper breakfast fare. He grinned. “It goes even better with my stomach. Mind if I help myself?”
    Without waiting for an answer, he snatched up a plate and loaded it with large helpings of everything. Licking his thumb clean of bacon grease, he glanced around, to realize that his staff still stood to attention.
    “Oh, do sit down.” He hefted his plate. “I’ll, um, take this to the kitchen.”
    Marthe seemed to regain her wits. “Get on with your breakfast, all of you. I’ll see to his lordship.”
    She bustled out after him, alternately apologizing for the lack of decent victuals above stairs and chastising him for failing to visit her sooner.
    “Ah, but la pauvre petite !” she continued. “The mistress, she has not two taste buds to rub together, that one.” With a dramatic sigh, the cook turned down her wide mobile mouth and shook her head. “It is a travesty, but what can I do? I must follow orders and serve up this bland English mess.” She threw up her hands. “Pudding! It is enough to make one weep.”
    “I’m surprised you’re still here.” Constantine’s own taste buds exploded with pleasure as he savored a mouthful of fried mushrooms in a creamy sauce laced with herbs and brandy.
    A Gallic shrug. “I am tied here by more than