A Companion for the Count: A Regency Romance by Britton, Sally (story reading .txt) 📗

to an open door on the other side of the room. Torlonia started to follow first, his expression stony.

Emma winced and fell into step behind him, with Lord Atella following behind. When they arrived in the room with the long table, benches on either side and chairs at either end, Torlonia started barking like an irritable dog.

“Bring flour, eggs, and olive oil. Salt, too. A bowl. A sharp knife.” He cast a quick look at the conte. “And an apron for the ambassador.”

The boys’ eyes went large, and he bobbed his head rapidly before scuttling out, obviously used to taking orders.

Emma clasped her hands before her apron and stared up at the ceiling, dreading whatever time she would spend listening to the older Italian gentleman grousing about everything, as he immediately began to do. The room was too dark. How did anyone expect his lordship to work in such conditions? The table too short. The surface not smooth enough. The surroundings uninspiring—

“And why does my lord want to make pasta?” He paced the room angrily. “What an idea. You, in the kitchens. What would the king say? What would your peers say? The duke has never cooked in his life, I would lay my life on that!” Then he looked sharply at Emma. “You are not to repeat that.”

Her jaw dropped open, but she snapped it closed again quickly. That he would dare to presume to order about someone of her station rather shocked her. She had been spoken to dismissively before, by people who did not understand her place, but never had anyone thought they could tell her what to say.

It left her quite speechless.

* * *

Luca had no intention of allowing Torlonia to stay after his poor show of temper. He took hold of his secretary’s arm, fixed him with a hard stare meant to remind Torlonia who outranked whom, and spoke quietly in Italian. “Thank you for your time today, signore. I think you had better go back to our rooms and prepare the letter of introduction for the duke’s nephew traveling to Rome. I will press my seal to it after it is completed.”

The ambassadorial duty would be excuse enough to send the man away without making him lose face in front of Miss Arlen, but Torlonia would not mistake the note of warning in Luca’s tone. Not if he wished to continue in his position.

Perhaps Luca had given the older man too much freedom in his speech, that he would think himself capable of ordering people about with such superiority.

Torlonia drew himself away from Luca, his nose tilted up, and he cast one dismissive glare at Miss Arlen before sweeping into a bow. “As you wish, mio Signore. I would only remind you before I go—do not forget what it is you are trying to accomplish here.” Then he left the room while Luca stood silently watching, clenching and unclenching his jaw.

Miss Arlen slipped closer to him, tilting her head at an angle to peer at him from the corner of her eye. “He must be very good at his job.”

Luca heaved a sigh. “When he stays within its bounds, yes.” Then he rubbed at his eyes. “I am sorry. I should not speak ill of him. Torlonia is a friend to me.”

"Our friends sometimes think they know best,” she responded, her tone thoughtful rather than offended. “Do not trouble yourself on my account. I am here as a friend, too. Tell me how you wish me to help.”

His gaze swept from her partially covered brown curls down to her dark slippers. Though her dress was not as fine as others she had worn, it was certainly out of place in a working kitchen. Her concession of a finely embroidered apron made him smile despite himself.

“If you do not mind, I will remove my coat. We have work to do, and I must keep my coat clean. I do not want my valet to join my secretary in a mutiny.”

"A wise decision.” She walked alongside the table while he shrugged out of his coat, putting it on the back of a chair. Then he unbuttoned his cuffs and started rolling them upward to just above his elbows. When Miss Arlen stood on the opposite side of the table from him, she stopped.

He hadn’t been so underdressed near a woman since leaving home, and it was hardly the same thing since said woman had been his mother helping him pack a trunk for his trip to Spain. Not that he felt at all indecent about it, given the task at hand. Except he noted Miss Arlen’s gaze darting from his exposed forearms away and back again.

The kitchen boy returned, proffering an apron with one hand while juggling a bowl full of everything Torlonia had requested in the other. Luca accepted the apron. “Thank you, Gerry. You may put those things on the table.”

The boy did as asked, then stepped back with his arms rigid at his side, clearly awaiting further orders.

Would that Luca could somehow withdraw from the task and save face. But once the duchess had heard him speak of the importance of a meal in his country, she had happily insisted he prepare the pasta, at least for the family plates. Then again, she had shared a rather amused glance with her husband when he’d seemed ready to give Luca a way out of the situation.

Perhaps they were laughing at him.

Except they seemed too kind to do such a thing.

Luca sighed and took up the sack of flour. He undid the drawstring at the top holding it together, then poured a pile out onto the table.

Miss Arlen approached her side of the surface, eyebrows furrowed. “What are you doing?”

“The best pasta is not mixed in a bowl, Miss Arlen. It is formed carefully upon a table.” He lightly salted the pile—as he had seen his mother and the monks do—and mixed it carefully in with the flour before forming a well in