My Lady Marzipan (Rare Confectionery Book 3) Page 9

  Charles was secretly pleased to see she had regained her good humor and pleasant countenance, both of which had been so blatantly absent the last time he was in her shop, watching her chase out customers. Perhaps it was the possibility of expanding Rare Confectionery that had put her in such a happy mood, but he could practically see her excitement in her sparkling eyes and bowed lips.

  Who would have ever guessed inside the young woman who crafted marzipan and loved pretty things, there beat the heart of a woman of business?

  He hoped it all worked out for the best. He also wished he’d invited her out a second time. It had been narrow-minded of him not to, but he was decidedly on the fence whether they were well-matched at all. While the attraction grew each time he was with her, if she were entirely unsuitable to become a viscountess, there was no point in leading her on. After all, he wasn’t a scoundrel to dally with a woman’s feelings, especially not the sister of his friend’s wife.

  Without hesitation, she accepted his offer to dine together alone as if it were the most natural thing in the world for a single female to dine at a single gentleman’s home. He couldn’t help rolling his eyes at the precariousness of it and hoped Pelham, as her brother-in-law, didn’t look unkindly upon him.

  As it turned out, over a creamy vegetable pottage followed by roast chicken with sliced potatoes, Miss Rare-Foure further enchanted him with her knowledge of art as well as the broadness of her thoughts. She’d traveled extensively on the Continent but didn’t put on airs about it. Instead, she seemed to have developed a keen insight into the differences among cultures while appreciating the sameness of people’s responses to such basic things as good food, wine, and music.

  In literature, she was not extremely well read, apparently preferring gossip rags and sentimental novels to anything philosophical. But then during dessert, she mentioned William Harrison Ainsworth.

  “I’m working my way through the three volumes of Mr. Ainsworth’s latest publication, Beau Nash. And I understand he is still writing at age 74.”

  Charles almost spit out his wine. “That’s remarkable.”

  “Is it?” She looked at him over a forkful of the strawberry tart Cook had made for the pudding course. “People do many things into their seventies.”

  “No, I didn’t mean because of his age. I meant because I greatly admire him as well. I’ve read nearly all of his works,” Charles declared, “except that one. I just haven’t had time as yet.”

  “Do you read him because he is also a lawyer?” she asked.

  What a delight, he thought, to have someone else with whom he could discuss an author he greatly admired.

  “Precisely, although not a satisfied one. He has the heart of a poet, I think.” Charles admired the man who could bring a bit of dash to the law profession, which so many viewed as dull. “Have you read The Star-Chamber?”

  “No, I haven’t,” she admitted. “But I read his Windsor Castle and thoroughly enjoyed it.”

  “I, as well. I have The Star-Chamber if you wish to borrow it. Two volumes.” He jumped up from the table. “Come along, bring your wine.” He’d never known a woman who’d read William Ainsworth before. He felt as if he’d found a fast friend, but he caught himself a second later. “That is, if you’ve finished with your tart.”

  For answer, she popped the last bite between her full lips, distracting him for a second so he forgot to immediately draw out her chair. When she started to push it back, he sprang into action recalling his manners. Then he led her from the dining room and up the main staircase to his study.

  “You must have read The Miser’s Daughter,” he said, holding the door for her to enter. Normally, it was his sanctum, breached only by his father, Pelham, or Waverly. Still, he didn’t think twice about inviting Miss Rare-Foure inside. “And The Flitch of—”

  “Of Bacon,” she finished, naming Ainsworth’s novel that explored the old tradition of awarding married couples a side of bacon if they could swear to having no regrets a year and a day after their marriage. “A bit sappy but strange enough to hold my interest.”

  When they entered the room, with him leaving the door open for propriety’s sake, she started to laugh. The sound unexpectedly sparked his desire, giving him pause. What the devil had got into him? He was not a randy youth. Yet, looking at Charlotte, with her rich brown eyes glittering in the lamplight, the bow of her upper lip curved with mirth, she was a delightful sprite. A few hours ago, he could never have imagined such a sweet creature in his study.

  She set her glass down on the edge of his crowded desk and twirled in a circle. “Just look!” She gestured with her delicate hands.

  “What am I looking at?”

  She laughed again, then said, “It is as if all the inviting bibelots and whatnots have been placed in here. The drawing room was so plain, one would think you had just moved in, and your dining room could best be described as stark. But here, you have attractive paintings and all these beautiful books, and that pretty silver candlestick. Anyone would proclaim the Persian rug under my feet to be most welcoming. Why, you even have a plant, looking healthy, if I may say.”

  “I think you’ve insulted most of my home,” Charles told her without rancor. In fact, he found it amusing she would be so frank. “But I’m glad you like my study. Here is where I spend most of my time.”

  “I can see why.” She wandered around the entire room, running her hand across the back of his leather chair, looking at his desk, even the papers strewn across it, which most would consider an insolent invasion of privacy. But when she did it, Charles didn’t mind. Eventually, she stopped in front of his bookcase where she began to peruse the titles. The entire occurrence gave him an odd but pleasurable feeling of familiarity.

  He had an upholstered chair by the glowing fire, only one since it was his private domain, and beside this a lamp table. He took her wine glass from the edge of his desk and set it on the table beside his, then he stood beside her to find the particular books.

  Her intoxicating fragrance filled his head as he bent to a lower shelf and withdrew the two-volume set of The Star-Chamber. He handed her one of the books.

  “It has everything,” he proclaimed, tapping the cover with his glasses before putting them on and flipping through the pages. “History, a thrilling story, that Gothic aspect everyone seems to love so much, and court scenes.”

  She laughed again. “And court scenes.”

  Charles wanted to kiss her at that moment more than he wanted to take his next breath. But he was a gentleman. He handed her the other volume and stepped away to put some distance between them. Picking up his wine glass, he took a quick sip and watched her while she opened the book.

  “Your name is Charles!” She stared at him from across the room, having read the bookplate on the inside cover. “Is it really?”

  “Yes,” he said, knowing instantly that the coincidence of their names would also make her laugh, and it did, a sweet bubbling sound.

  “How strange I never knew it. No one told me, although I suppose I never asked. Charles Jeffcoat,” she mused.

  “Charles Jeffrey Jeffcoat,” he said, just to tickle her funny bone again.

  “It’s not!” And she clutched the books to her while she chuckled.

  “You’ve found a good humored doxy,” came his father’s voice from the hallway, and Charlotte went absolutely silent.

  They both turned to the Earl of Bentley. His father stood in the doorway, his gray-streaked hair still predominantly brown and, at that moment, uncombed and in frightful disarray. He wore a dressing gown over his clothes in lieu of a coat. Charles could see he had on neither tie nor cravat of any kind, and his shirt under the robe was open at the throat. Naturally, he also wore his favorite slippers.

  Charles couldn’t help rolling his eyes. His father spoke without malice, simply stating what he thought was the truth and in no uncertain terms. Evidence would have one believe there was a light-skirt in the study, for what other kind of woman would b
e alone with a man, drinking wine and behaving in such a relaxed fashion?

  “Father, she is not a doxy. He glanced at Charlotte to gauge her reaction. She looked more curious than anything and, thankfully, not insulted. “Miss Rare-Foure, allow me to introduce to you the Earl of Bentley.” Then he turned back to his father. “Miss Rare-Foure is a family friend.”

  “What family? Not ours,” his father pointed out, slipping his hands into the pockets of his housecoat.

  “My sister is the Duchess of Pelham,” Charlotte spoke up, ignoring his unfriendly tone.

  “Ah, Pelham!” the earl exclaimed. “Known him since he was wet behind the ears. Goes on about nothing except coffee, but a good sort, I suppose. And he is a man with a superior mother.”

  Charlotte glanced questioningly at Charles, but this wasn’t the time to discuss his own mother’s numerous flaws. He merely shrugged, hoping that imparted everything and nothing.

  Charlotte seemed to catch on. “Yes, the Dowager Duchess is a wonderful woman who treats my sister very well indeed.”

  “Hmph,” his father said. “Did I miss dinner?”

  “Yes, sir. Wasn’t a tray brought up to your room?” Charles reminded him of his usual custom.

  His father shrugged. “I suppose it was, but I had intended to visit with you.”

  At these words, Charlotte stepped forward. “My lord, why don’t you come in and have some wine with us. Or do you prefer brandy? It’s much more pleasant in here than downstairs anyway. Perhaps you would care for some dessert.”

  She looked to Charles for confirmation, and he realized her shopgirl skills of making customers at ease was, as he’d suspected, the same as those of a good hostess.

  “Yes,” he agreed. “Father, come sit down by the fire. We were just discussing books.”

  His father was still frankly studying Charlotte, who handled his impolite stare with aplomb.

  “What was for pudding?” he demanded of her.

  “Strawberry tart,” Charlotte responded. “It was delicious.”

  Not looking at him, his father said, “Get me some, will you, Charlie?”

  Wishing the familiar nickname didn’t make him sound like a little boy, Charles pressed the bell by the door to summon a servant.

  At last, his father came farther into the room and took the winged chair by the fire.

  “Actually we were discussing family names,” Charlotte said.

  “So I heard. And Charlie was lying to you. He isn’t Charles Jeffrey Jeffcoat. How absurd!”

  “Oh!” Charlotte turned her big brown eyes upon Charles wonderingly. She probably thought him a bald-faced liar.

  “I was only trying to be funny,” he confessed, feeling foolish. “Our family name is Lambeth.” There was nothing amusing about that.

  “Charles Jeffrey Lambeth, The Viscount Jeffcoat,” she said, putting it all together.

  Oddly, Charles hoped she liked his long designation. He flicked her a smile, which she returned.

  “One day — probably sooner rather than later — to be the Earl of Bentley,” his father added, “but, of course, you knew that.”

  Charles rolled his eyes at the slight insult, practically calling her a title hunter, but Charlotte didn’t appear to take offense. Instead, she walked around the chair to stand by the glowing coals and face his father.

  “Do you admire the writing of Mr. Ainsworth?” Charlotte asked.

  Charles expected his father to jump up at once at realizing his own atrocious discourtesy. Instead, he leaned his head back and laid blame elsewhere.

  “I’m terribly sorry. My son is remiss in having just the one comfortable chair, and I took it like a dunce. We are so unused to visitors.” He rounded on his son. “Charlie, bring your desk chair around here for me. Then the young lady can have this comfy one.”

  “That’s quite all right, my lord,” Charlotte began, but stopped when Charles did as his father commanded and got the two of them settled. He was left to ask a footman for dessert as well as for another chair, deciding to remedy the lack and place another wingback chair by the fireplace soon. Perhaps that would bring his father in more often for a chat.

  In any case, he was astounded to hear Charlotte and his father fall into an easy conversation. Every time the earl became prickly, she said something to soothe him until the dessert arrived, which his father tucked into with glee. Naturally, the earl confessed a preference for older works from Homer to Shakespeare, barely allowing Voltaire and Goethe as worth reading.

  “Everything else is just drivel, including that Ainsworth,” he nodded toward the books she held.

  “Oh, I enjoy them tremendously,” Charlotte said good naturedly, retrieving her wine glass from the small table. “I also like Swift or Defoe for a diverting adventure.”

  “Bah,” his father said, but his tone was pleasant. Then he glanced at his son and back at Charlotte. “If you’re not a doxy, why are you here?”

  “Father!” Charles was ready to trounce him. It was beyond the pale to make a guest feel unwelcome. His father who could act with all due decorum in Parliament was undoubtedly being rude for sport.

  Before he could say more, the earl added, “I suspect you didn’t come over merely to eat our food and borrow some books, but to secure yourself a titled husband as your sister did.”

  Chapter Eight

  Charles watched Charlotte’s cheeks turn pink with embarrassment. He felt her mortification down to his own toes.

  “Father, that was rude. Miss Rare-Foure came to ask my legal advice, and you owe her an apology.”

  “Do I?” the earl asked, taking the dessert plate off the table where he’d set it aside. Saying nothing more, instead he took the last bite of tart and chewed happily.

  Clearly, he knew he’d said something inflammatory and was enjoying himself anyway. Sometimes lately, his father descended into a childlike state of willfulness, but Charles thought it was more likely due to increased isolation, and thus a lack of need for the practice of civility, than due to any loss of his mental faculties.

  “No, it’s all right,” Charlotte said. “Naturally, your father is confused.”

  Charles nearly laughed out loud as her words had mirrored his thoughts, coming up with the opposite conclusion — or, at least, pretending to, in order to excuse the earl’s outrageous behavior.

  His father lowered the fork, his brows drawing together. “Confused? Why would you say such a thing?”

  Charlotte fixed him with her chocolate-brown gaze. “I assume you’re a little befuddled, my lord. Why else would you walk around here in your housecoat, with no idea if you’ve had your dinner, eschewing good manners for impolite words and wearing your slippers in mixed company. And all the while able to speak cleverly about great literature.”

  Charles’s mouth dropped open. She had managed to insult the earl every which way while putting him in his place and sounding like a charming guest at the same time. Not to mention finishing with her warm smile and practically a compliment. Then she sipped her wine.

  He wanted to say, “Brava!” but held his tongue.

  His father looked put out. “I am neither confused nor befuddled, young lady.”

  “Then how do you explain your behavior?” she asked, tilting her head in a pretty fashion.

  All of a sudden, this had become interesting, Charles mused.

  The earl opened his mouth, then shut it. He would have to confess either to being a rude old codger or a befuddled one.

  “I suppose I owe you an apology,” he muttered at last. “In my defense, we never have guests and this one,” he jerked a thumb in Charles’s direction, “never has a female ‘friend’ over. The only people who ever come in here are Pelham and Waverly. And you were right, the strawberry tart is delicious.” He turned to Charles. “You forgot to order me a glass of wine. Hurry, I’m parched. Now, what was this legal matter?”

  To Charles’s amazement, the three of them had a brief but civil discussion about Rare Confectionery, a
nd his father thought any expansion on New Bond Street to be “a capital idea.” Basically, although unasked, he gave Charlotte his blessing.

  In another hour, with more wine having been drunk, Charles offered to take her home.

  “It was my pleasure to meet you, Miss Rare-Foure,” his father said, standing to see them out.

  “It was a pleasure to meet you as well, my lord,” she returned.

  “Of course it was,” Charles muttered in her ear as they descended the staircase.

  CHARLOTTE LAUGHED AND hugged the books to her chest. “It was a pleasure,” she insisted. “Your father is delightful.”

  Lord Jeffcoat draped her cloak around her shoulders. Behind her, she felt him shake his head. “He was not,” he said close to her ear.

  His breath tickled, but she didn’t move away as a frisson of excitement snaked down her spine.

  “Not at first,” she clarified, “but after.”

  “After you turned on your charm,” he insisted.

  She couldn’t hold back her laugh. “I am known for it,” she confessed, hoping she didn’t sound boastful.

  His lordship’s butler appeared. “Your carriage is ready, sir.”

  “Thank you, Phelps.”

  Charlotte abruptly realized how far she was stretching the bounds of hospitality. Whirling to face the viscount, she had to protest his next act of kindness.

  “You mustn’t take me home. I showed up here uninvited, and yet you helped me with my legal concerns, you fed me, and you even lent me some books.” She patted the top volume. “I can easily hail a hackney.”

  “As my best friend’s sister-in-law, I do consider you a friend,” Lord Jeffcoat told her, his blue eyes holding her gaze. “Besides, Pelham would throttle me if I let you go off into the darkness alone. Or the duchess would. Come along. It’s a short jaunt to Baker Street.”

  “Precisely,” she protested, “so hardly worth you harnessing your horses.”

  “Already done, and not by me, I assure you.”