Lady of Shame. Ann Lethbridge

reminded herself fiercely, if not for her daughter. Jane was the real victim of Claire’s mistake.

      A light tap on the door brought her head up. Was this the summons to meet with her brother?

      ‘Come,’ she said, gripping her hands tightly in her lap.

      The door opened to reveal a tall man in a dark coat. The chef from the kitchen, minus his white hat. The handsome man for whom she had warmed from the inside out at the slightest touch. Unless that was all in her imagination. Everything about him was dark. His eyes brooded. Lips finely moulded for kissing looked as if they rarely smiled.

      He pushed the door wider, revealing the tray balanced on one large hand. She recognised the pie as part of the meal she’d been forced to leave behind. The delicious smell made her stomach growl so loudly she was sure he must hear.

      ‘You did not eat your supper, madame,’ he murmured.

      His voice was deep and the trace of his French accent as attractive as the man himself. Her insides clenched with the pleasure of just looking at him. Madness.

      An intense dark gaze riveted on her face. She had the feeling he could see right into her mind. As if he could see her lustful reactions. An answering spark flared in his eyes. Her cheeks warmed. This was not behaviour befitting a duke’s daughter.

      ‘My daughter felt unwell.’

      ‘Too much rich food before dinner.’ His face remained impassive, but she was sure she heard condemnation in his voice. He thought her an unfit mother.

      ‘It has been a long time since Jane had such delicious treats.’ Oh, why was she offering up an excuse? Servants always gossiped and they had enough to scorn without her giving them more ammunition.

      Why should she care what a chef thought? Was it the delicious smell of the food on the tray undermining her reserve?

      ‘Now the child is settled,’ he said briskly, ‘there is time for you to eat.’ He set the tray on the small table at her elbow, then lifted the table and set it before her.

      Her mouth watered. ‘This is very kind of you, Mr …?’

      ‘André. Monsieur André.’

      She smiled. ‘My thanks, Monsieur André.’

      He acknowledged her gratitude with an incline of his head and folded his arms over his wide chest. ‘Eat.’

      ‘Yes, thank you.’ She looked at him, expecting him to leave. He didn’t move. ‘Is there something more?’

      His eyes widened a fraction. Chagrin flickered across his face. Or was it anger? His expression was now so impassive, so carefully blank, she couldn’t be sure. ‘I wish your opinion on the pie, madame,’ he finally said. ‘Is it good enough to send up to the duke?’

      ‘Oh.’ Her chest tightened at the idea that he would think she had such authority. ‘It is not my place to say, I am sure.’ She looked down at the plate, at the pastry, golden and flaking at the edges, the thick creamy sauce coating the vegetables and meat. ‘It looks and smells delicious. I am not sure—’

      ‘You will taste it, madame.’

      That was an order if ever she’d heard one. French chefs. She’d heard they were difficult. She had no wish to upset him. No wish to anger her brother. Not before they had a chance to talk. She picked up the cutlery.

      Monsieur André leaned forward and shook out the napkin and spread it over her skirts. He moved so close, she could see the individual black lashes so thick and long around his dark eyes, and the way his hair grazed the pristine white collar showing above the black of his coat. Her breath seemed to lodge in her throat at the beauty of his angular face so close to hers and the warmth of him washing up against her skin. The scent of him, lemon and some darker spice, filled her nostrils. Her head swam a little.

      Only when he stepped back could she take in a deep enough breath to dispel the dizziness. It must be hunger.

      What else could it be?

      A flush lit her face and neck. She lowered her gaze to her plate and cut into the pastry. She stabbed a fragment of partridge coated with sauce with her fork and put the whole in her mouth. The flavours were sensational. Creamy. Seasoned to perfection. Tender. She closed her eyes. Never had she tasted food this good. She finished the mouthful and glanced up at the chef who was watching her closely.

      Once more she had the feeling he could read her thoughts. The man’s intensity was positively unnerving.

      ‘It is delicious. Thank you. I am quite sure His Grace will be pleased.’

      She set down the knife and fork, expecting him to depart. Would he take the tray with him? She hoped not.

      ‘You need to eat more to be certain,’ he said.

      She blinked. ‘I really don’t think—’

      ‘It might be too rich,’ he said. ‘You cannot tell from one mouthful. Did you not find the oyster soup too rich?’

      ‘Oh, no, it was delicious. Really.’

      He raised a brow. ‘You ate so little, how could you tell?’

      Goodness, the man was as autocratic as he looked and that bump on his nose reinforced the fierceness in his eyes. A warrior chef? ‘Very well.’ She picked up her knife and fork and ate two more mouthfuls and found herself wanting to shovel the rest into her mouth. The more she ate, the more she wanted. Before she knew it, the plate was empty and she felt full to the brim. She sighed.

      When she looked up, the chef’s full sensual lips had the faintest curve. A smile?

      Her stomach flipped over in the most decadent way.

      What was wrong with her? Hadn’t she learned her lesson with regard to attractive men? They didn’t want her at all; they wanted her family connections. Mortifying it might be, but it was the truth.

      She straightened her spine, picked up the napkin and flung it over the empty plate as if it would hide just how hungry she’d been. Too hungry to leave a morsel. No doubt they would be talking about that in the kitchen tomorrow while they dredged up the old scandal. ‘That was delicious, Monsieur André.’ She waved permission for him to take away the tray.

      His posture stiffened. ‘Madame would like some dessert? There is a vanilla blancmange in the kitchen.’

      It sounded heavenly. And he offered it in such velvety tones she could almost taste the vanilla on her tongue as his voice wrapped around her body. Charm. She fell for it so easily. She clenched her hands in her lap. ‘No. Thank you.’

      A muscle in his axe blade of a jaw flickered as if he would argue. A mere twitch, but it broke the spell. What was she doing, letting this man order her about? Never again would she be any man’s doormat. Her spine stiffened in outrage, at him, at herself. ‘That will be all, Monsieur André.’

      He recoiled, his eyes widening. ‘I simply saw that you did not eat and thought—’

      ‘What I eat, when I eat, is my concern alone, monsieur.’

      ‘I beg your pardon, madame,’ he said stiffly. There was anger in his tone, but something else gleamed in his dark gaze. Hurt? Gone too quickly to be sure, he was once more all arrogant male as he bowed. ‘I will relieve you of my unwelcome presence.’ He swept up the tray and strode from the room.

      Blast. Now she’d upset Crispin’s chef. Montague pride, when she had nothing to be proud about. Hopefully the man would not vent to her brother, or take his anger out on the kitchen staff. She would probably have to apologise, even though the chef was in the wrong.

       Chapter Three

      The breakfast room overlooked the lawn at the side of the house. If one stood close to the window, one could just get a glimpse of the lake, with its decorative