An Unconventional Countess. Jenni Fletcher

and not that she cared what this gentleman thought of her hair either, even when he was standing close enough to see every wild tendril, but something about the deep timbre of his voice made her self-conscious. She found herself tucking a stray coil behind her ear before she could stop herself.

      ‘There you are.’ She unwrapped one of the bundles of tissue paper, unveiling a cream-coloured round biscuit for his inspection, then waited in silence for several long moments until she couldn’t wait any longer. ‘Is something the matter?’

      ‘Not exactly. I suppose the tin just looked bigger from a distance.’ He rubbed a hand across his chin as if he were considering the problem. There were bristles there, she noticed, another ungentlemanly contradiction, though she supposed it was nearing the end of the day. They were the same dark auburn shade as his hair and looked softer than she would have expected bristles to look, positively strokeable, in fact... She gave a startled jolt and lifted her gaze determinedly back to his eyes, irritated that any gentleman could have such a distracting effect on her.

      ‘I’m afraid this is the biggest tin we do.’

      ‘Ah. Pity.’ He laid his hand down flat on the counter beside hers, so close that their fingers were nearly, but not quite, touching. To her surprise, his skin was rough and weathered-looking as if, despite being a gentleman, he was used to manual labour. ‘They’re for a special lady, you see, and I wouldn’t want to appear churlish.’

      ‘Indeed?’ She tugged her own hand away, heat rising in her cheeks. ‘Then perhaps you might want to consider two tins? Or a different present altogether?’

      ‘But these look delicious.’ He seemed undeterred by her sarcasm. ‘And of course some would say that quality is more important than quantity, only I’m afraid that this particular lady is rather...’ he paused, lowering his voice to an intimate undertone ‘...voracious in her appetites.’

      ‘I’m sure she’d be delighted to hear you say so.’ Anna straightened her shoulders, feeling her temper start to escalate. How dare he talk to her about appetites, voracious or otherwise? No gentleman would ever speak to a lady in such an unguarded fashion! The words encouraged her to be indiscreet, too. ‘Well, I suppose that size matters to some people. Perhaps you’ve disappointed her with something small before?’

      She put her hands on her hips with a look of defiance, expecting him to storm out of the door in an offended rage, surprised when he burst into loud laughter instead.

      ‘The tin it is.’ He pushed himself up off the counter, eyes glinting with humour. ‘And I’ll just have to bear whatever criticism my lady friend makes. Are the biscuits inside all the same?’

      ‘Only in shape.’ Anna rearranged the contents and replaced the lid quickly, trying to ignore the way his laughter seemed to vibrate through her body, like a breeze stirring ripples across a lake. It seemed to cause a strange quivering sensation in her stomach, too, lower down than before and somewhat alarming in its intensity. It made her feel even more agitated. If only he’d stormed out! Then she could have forgotten his existence and turned her attention back to Henrietta. Instead, annoyingly, she found herself wanting to hear him laugh again... ‘We make three types of Belle. Vanilla, cinnamon and rosewater.’

      ‘So the biscuits are called Belles?’

      ‘Precisely.’ She pushed the tin across the counter, shooting a pointed look from beneath her lashes. ‘You’re very quick, sir.’

      Despite the insult, he laughed again. ‘Which is your favourite?’

      ‘None of them. I started baking when I was eight. After sixteen years, I can honestly say that I’ve lost my sweet tooth.’

      ‘But if you had to choose a favourite? So that I can particularly recommend one to my lady friend?’

      ‘She’s your lady friend.’ Anna pursed her lips disapprovingly. ‘If she’s so special, then I would have thought you might know her tastes better. Here...’ She picked up the plate of samples. ‘Try one.’

      ‘Thank you.’ He selected the darkest-coloured biscuit and took a bite, eyebrows lifting as he chewed. ‘Cinnamon? It’s delicious.’

      ‘You sound surprised.’ She lifted her own eyebrows to mirror his.

      ‘I am. I’m not usually fond of biscuits, but I could eat a dozen of these. Definitely my favourite.’

      ‘You haven’t tried the others.’

      ‘I don’t need to.’ He rapped his knuckles decisively on the countertop. ‘I’ll recommend this one whatever the consequences.’

      ‘Consequences?’ she couldn’t resist asking. ‘Are you likely to face those?’

      ‘Oh, yes. She’s quite a tyrant in her own way.’

      ‘Of course she is.’

      ‘But open-minded, too.’ He popped the last of the biscuit into his mouth. ‘I admire that in a person. Being judgemental is such an unattractive quality, don’t you think?’

      ‘I think it depends. There’s a difference between being judgemental and having high standards. Now, if that’s all, that will be four shillings.’

      ‘Ribbon?’

      ‘That costs more.’

      ‘Ah, but she’s worth it.’

      ‘Naturally.’ Anna narrowed her eyes, reaching under the counter for a roll of blue ribbon and then coughing loudly as she saw Henrietta’s companion touch her elbow.

      ‘That sounds nasty.’ Her own customer sounded amused. ‘Perhaps you ought to consult a physician about it.’

      ‘I’m perfectly well, thank you.’ She narrowed her eyes even further, though it was difficult to do so without actually closing them.

      ‘I’m relieved to hear it. Otherwise I’d have to suggest a visit to the Pump Rooms to take some of the waters, and it’s not an experience I’d recommend.’

      ‘Indeed? Then I wonder what you’re doing in Bath, sir?’ She gave the ribbon an aggressive snip with her scissors. ‘Isn’t it the start of the London Season soon? Perhaps you ought to be there, preparing yourself for balls at Almack’s and picnics at Vauxhall Gardens?’

      ‘Perhaps I should be.’ He gave a careless-looking shrug. ‘But what can a man do when his grandmother summons him?’

      ‘Your grandmother?’ She paused in the act of curling a ribbon.

      ‘My special lady, yes.’ The corners of his mouth curved upwards. ‘Who did you think I was talking about?’

      ‘I...’ She cleared her throat, willing the sudden onslaught of heat across her cheeks to subside. ‘Your wife, perhaps?’

      ‘Alas, I haven’t found a woman willing to put up with me yet. Hard to believe, isn’t it?’

      ‘Unfathomable.’ She finished curling the ribbons, trying to ignore an unwelcome frisson of excitement at the words. ‘There you are. I hope that your grandmother enjoys them. They were baked fresh this morning.’

      ‘Do you bake them yourself?’ He seemed in no hurry to be leaving, extracting a few coins from his coat pocket.

      ‘I do everything here myself. It’s my shop.’

      ‘You’re the proprietor?’ He looked impressed.

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘And the baker?’

      ‘And everything else.’ She lifted her chin proudly. ‘I do whatever needs doing.’

      ‘Then I compliment you, Mrs...?’

      ‘Miss Fortini.’

      ‘Miss Fortini.’ He repeated her name, his eyes lingering on her face in a way that made