smacking the dough over. “Never.”
The footman blacking the andirons apparently needed to be elsewhere, too, which left Trent alone with the queen of his kitchen.
“The servants aren’t hungry, though they’re not satisfied, either. You’re not at Wilton, Louise, and you needn’t perpetuate my father’s stingy ways.”
“I beg your pardon?” She stopped her kneading, her disapproval of Trent all the more palpable for being silent. He couldn’t tell if her ire was because he’d used her given name, or he’d dared speak ill of his father, whom she, for some reason, regarded as the apogee of all a titled head of household ought to be.
She ploughed her fist into the dough again. “His lordship the earl is not stingy. He practices economies, is all.”
Wilton was a nipfarthing, penny-pinching, cheese-paring excuse for a peer.
“We needn’t practice his economies here,” Trent said, pleasantly of course, despite mention of Wilton. “Stop buying coarse flour for the servants’ bread; stop setting the worst butter on their table; stop relegating them to viands only the hounds would enjoy. If you need me to establish their menus, I shall.”
The bread dough took a sorry beating—as did Trent’s patience—while he held his ground.
“Louise,” he said quietly, “you may not like what I have to say, but if you’ve some reason for putting poorer fare before the help, you’ve only to tell me. I’ll listen and I won’t turf you out for speaking up.”
“You’ll listen,” she muttered, “and then you’ll do as you lordly well please, like your papa. Don’t blame me when you’ve no coin for your own.”
Like his papa ? Wilton would have let the woman go without a character when she’d presumed to criticize him for visiting his own kitchens.
“I would never blame another for my own woes, Louise, but does that mean you’ll make me an apple cake tonight? I’m off to Wilton in the morning, and a piece or two in my saddlebags would see me nicely on my way to Hampshire.”
Her expression became thoughtful, and the dough was allowed to lie on the board, thoroughly subdued. “You’re for Wilton tomorrow?”
“I’m carrying letters from some of the other servants. Let me know if you’d like me to take a note or two for you.”
“I will.” She resumed abusing the dough, her expression shuttering.
“And Louise?”
“Cook, if you please.”
“If I didn’t say it before, I’m saying it now.” Trent waited until she met his eyes. “You have my thanks, for staying here when I was not much in evidence. For not running off to a better post. For keeping my people fed when I wasn’t paying enough attention.”
She jerked her chin at the door. “Out of my kitchen with you. I’ve work to do.”
“And an apple cake to make.” Trent sauntered off, though he had the sense turning his back on Louise was not an entirely prudent course.
Chapter Six
All the way to Wilton, through the shady bridle paths and farm lanes of Surrey, to the busier thoroughfares and cultivated fields, into the rich farmland of Hampshire, Trent considered a single, unexpected kiss.
Ellie—in his mind, she was Ellie now—had murmured some little platitude in response to his blurting out his widowed status. She’d gamely resumed their negotiation thereafter, not even fixing herself a cup of tea until they’d agreed to meet upon his return from Wilton and finalize details: She’d see to borrowing the stallion from Greymoor while Trent sent word to his solicitor to draft an agreement.
Then she’d walked him to the door of that cozy little parlor, leaned up, and kissed his cheek in parting.
And he, in a complete and irredeemable display of masculine miscalculation, had turned his head, to cadge another little whiff of her scent. Their mouths had brushed, caught, paused and then…
His mouth had come awake for the first time in years, startled into awareness by the
The footman blacking the andirons apparently needed to be elsewhere, too, which left Trent alone with the queen of his kitchen.
“The servants aren’t hungry, though they’re not satisfied, either. You’re not at Wilton, Louise, and you needn’t perpetuate my father’s stingy ways.”
“I beg your pardon?” She stopped her kneading, her disapproval of Trent all the more palpable for being silent. He couldn’t tell if her ire was because he’d used her given name, or he’d dared speak ill of his father, whom she, for some reason, regarded as the apogee of all a titled head of household ought to be.
She ploughed her fist into the dough again. “His lordship the earl is not stingy. He practices economies, is all.”
Wilton was a nipfarthing, penny-pinching, cheese-paring excuse for a peer.
“We needn’t practice his economies here,” Trent said, pleasantly of course, despite mention of Wilton. “Stop buying coarse flour for the servants’ bread; stop setting the worst butter on their table; stop relegating them to viands only the hounds would enjoy. If you need me to establish their menus, I shall.”
The bread dough took a sorry beating—as did Trent’s patience—while he held his ground.
“Louise,” he said quietly, “you may not like what I have to say, but if you’ve some reason for putting poorer fare before the help, you’ve only to tell me. I’ll listen and I won’t turf you out for speaking up.”
“You’ll listen,” she muttered, “and then you’ll do as you lordly well please, like your papa. Don’t blame me when you’ve no coin for your own.”
Like his papa ? Wilton would have let the woman go without a character when she’d presumed to criticize him for visiting his own kitchens.
“I would never blame another for my own woes, Louise, but does that mean you’ll make me an apple cake tonight? I’m off to Wilton in the morning, and a piece or two in my saddlebags would see me nicely on my way to Hampshire.”
Her expression became thoughtful, and the dough was allowed to lie on the board, thoroughly subdued. “You’re for Wilton tomorrow?”
“I’m carrying letters from some of the other servants. Let me know if you’d like me to take a note or two for you.”
“I will.” She resumed abusing the dough, her expression shuttering.
“And Louise?”
“Cook, if you please.”
“If I didn’t say it before, I’m saying it now.” Trent waited until she met his eyes. “You have my thanks, for staying here when I was not much in evidence. For not running off to a better post. For keeping my people fed when I wasn’t paying enough attention.”
She jerked her chin at the door. “Out of my kitchen with you. I’ve work to do.”
“And an apple cake to make.” Trent sauntered off, though he had the sense turning his back on Louise was not an entirely prudent course.
Chapter Six
All the way to Wilton, through the shady bridle paths and farm lanes of Surrey, to the busier thoroughfares and cultivated fields, into the rich farmland of Hampshire, Trent considered a single, unexpected kiss.
Ellie—in his mind, she was Ellie now—had murmured some little platitude in response to his blurting out his widowed status. She’d gamely resumed their negotiation thereafter, not even fixing herself a cup of tea until they’d agreed to meet upon his return from Wilton and finalize details: She’d see to borrowing the stallion from Greymoor while Trent sent word to his solicitor to draft an agreement.
Then she’d walked him to the door of that cozy little parlor, leaned up, and kissed his cheek in parting.
And he, in a complete and irredeemable display of masculine miscalculation, had turned his head, to cadge another little whiff of her scent. Their mouths had brushed, caught, paused and then…
His mouth had come awake for the first time in years, startled into awareness by the
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