lesson.
Tess knew he wasn't happy about acquiring a donkey. In fact, he didn't seem to welcome anything or anyone into his solitude—not servants, not her, not even a few animals. She wished she knew why, but she knew she’d never learn the reason from him.
It was time to begin preparing the evening meal, and she supposed she should go in search of him. He was probably in his studio, but she hesitated to disturb him if he was working, and she knew enough now about cooking to prepare a meal by herself. She’d make dinner and take it up to him, she decided. A sort of peace offering.
She set to work, and two hours later, she was carrying a tray laden with roast chicken, a loaf of bread and a bottle of wine up to the tower, rather pleased with her efforts. Granted, it was a simple meal, but a few weeks ago, she would never have been able to prepare it.
As she’d suspected, Alexandre was in his studio. He was painting, and though his face was in profile to her, his preoccupation with his work was evident, for he applied paint to canvas in quick, almost frantic strokes, and he didn’t even look up as she entered the room. She hesitated by the stairs, not sure she should interrupt.
A flash of movement caught her attention, and she watched as Augustus ambled across the room, displaying none of her reticence about disturbing an artist at work. The kitten moved between Alexandre's feet, rubbing against the man's boots and purring loudly.
“Not now, mon ami ,” Alexandre told the animal, his attention fixed on the canvas before him. “I know you're hungry, but you shall have to wait.”
Augustus responded with plaintive meow, but when this was ignored, the kitten curled his body over Alexandre's foot, his chin resting on the tip of the boot and his tail wrapped around the ankle.
Tess laughed, and Alexandre glanced in her direction.
“Mademoiselle,” he greeted and returned his attention to his work. “Something amuses you?”
“This is the man who hates cats,” she teased as she crossed the room and set the tray on one of the room’s less cluttered tables.
“The cat, unfortunately, does not hate me.”
“You say that, but if you really resented him as much as you pretend to, you wouldn’t let him stay.”
He heaved an aggravated sigh, but he didn’t debate the point.
“Are you hungry?” Tess asked as she poured wine into glasses. “I've prepared dinner.”
“Not that I don’t trust you...” He paused, glancing at the tray and then at her, and a rueful smile tilted his mouth. “But did you taste it first?”
She made a face at him. “If there’s anything wrong with it, you have only yourself to blame. You taught me how to make roast chicken.”
“Then let’s hope I’ve been a good teacher, because I’m famished.” He set the brush and palette on the table nearest him, then came to where she stood, reaching for the glass of wine she held out to him, his fingers brushing hers as he took the offered glass. A few weeks ago, Tess would have tensed at the brief contact, but now she found herself savoring it.
He took a sip of the wine, and set his glass beside hers on tray, then pulled out a pair of stools from beneath the table, giving her a look of apology. “I’ve no comfortable chairs up here. Will this do?”
“Of course.” She settled herself on one of the stools and he moved his to sit opposite her and maneuvered the tray to rest between them, shoving aside paint supplies and rags. He then picked up the knife, sliced the chicken into pieces with a few practiced strokes, and picked up a thigh.
She found herself holding her breath as he took a bite, unable to avoid remembering the first time he’d sampled her cooking, but her worry proved groundless.
“ Très bon ,” he complimented around a mouthful of chicken. “Perfect.”
It was only a chicken, but she felt a thrill of pride just the same. “Is it really?”
“No, but I have to say that. As you pointed out, it is my
Tess knew he wasn't happy about acquiring a donkey. In fact, he didn't seem to welcome anything or anyone into his solitude—not servants, not her, not even a few animals. She wished she knew why, but she knew she’d never learn the reason from him.
It was time to begin preparing the evening meal, and she supposed she should go in search of him. He was probably in his studio, but she hesitated to disturb him if he was working, and she knew enough now about cooking to prepare a meal by herself. She’d make dinner and take it up to him, she decided. A sort of peace offering.
She set to work, and two hours later, she was carrying a tray laden with roast chicken, a loaf of bread and a bottle of wine up to the tower, rather pleased with her efforts. Granted, it was a simple meal, but a few weeks ago, she would never have been able to prepare it.
As she’d suspected, Alexandre was in his studio. He was painting, and though his face was in profile to her, his preoccupation with his work was evident, for he applied paint to canvas in quick, almost frantic strokes, and he didn’t even look up as she entered the room. She hesitated by the stairs, not sure she should interrupt.
A flash of movement caught her attention, and she watched as Augustus ambled across the room, displaying none of her reticence about disturbing an artist at work. The kitten moved between Alexandre's feet, rubbing against the man's boots and purring loudly.
“Not now, mon ami ,” Alexandre told the animal, his attention fixed on the canvas before him. “I know you're hungry, but you shall have to wait.”
Augustus responded with plaintive meow, but when this was ignored, the kitten curled his body over Alexandre's foot, his chin resting on the tip of the boot and his tail wrapped around the ankle.
Tess laughed, and Alexandre glanced in her direction.
“Mademoiselle,” he greeted and returned his attention to his work. “Something amuses you?”
“This is the man who hates cats,” she teased as she crossed the room and set the tray on one of the room’s less cluttered tables.
“The cat, unfortunately, does not hate me.”
“You say that, but if you really resented him as much as you pretend to, you wouldn’t let him stay.”
He heaved an aggravated sigh, but he didn’t debate the point.
“Are you hungry?” Tess asked as she poured wine into glasses. “I've prepared dinner.”
“Not that I don’t trust you...” He paused, glancing at the tray and then at her, and a rueful smile tilted his mouth. “But did you taste it first?”
She made a face at him. “If there’s anything wrong with it, you have only yourself to blame. You taught me how to make roast chicken.”
“Then let’s hope I’ve been a good teacher, because I’m famished.” He set the brush and palette on the table nearest him, then came to where she stood, reaching for the glass of wine she held out to him, his fingers brushing hers as he took the offered glass. A few weeks ago, Tess would have tensed at the brief contact, but now she found herself savoring it.
He took a sip of the wine, and set his glass beside hers on tray, then pulled out a pair of stools from beneath the table, giving her a look of apology. “I’ve no comfortable chairs up here. Will this do?”
“Of course.” She settled herself on one of the stools and he moved his to sit opposite her and maneuvered the tray to rest between them, shoving aside paint supplies and rags. He then picked up the knife, sliced the chicken into pieces with a few practiced strokes, and picked up a thigh.
She found herself holding her breath as he took a bite, unable to avoid remembering the first time he’d sampled her cooking, but her worry proved groundless.
“ Très bon ,” he complimented around a mouthful of chicken. “Perfect.”
It was only a chicken, but she felt a thrill of pride just the same. “Is it really?”
“No, but I have to say that. As you pointed out, it is my
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