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

the grain. The flour was of the finest quality he had ever seen, a subtle testament to the wealth of the duke.

Then he took the eggs and cracked several into the bowl. Three or four? Three whole eggs. Four egg yolks.

“I must remove the egg whites,” he said by way of explanation as he cracked one egg in half, then poured the yolk from one side to the other over a small bowl, letting the clear part of the egg drip into the bowl.

Miss Arlen came around the table to stand closer to him, peering at what he did. “I’ve never cracked an egg. Is that strange to admit?”

The admission sounded almost wistful, and he gave her a reassuring smile. “One of your status would have no need.”

“May I try?”

“Of course. Here, take this one. We need only the yolk.”

She bit her lip and tapped the egg too gently on the table for so much as a crack to appear.

“A bit harder, Miss Arlen. You are trying to crack it.”

She narrowed her eyes and gave it a vicious smack, cracking the egg in half while still in her hands, causing the insides to spill both in and out of the bowl, and the broken yolk to coat her fingers.

Luca laughed while she stared at her hand in horror. “Too hard, Miss Arlen.”

She raised her gaze to his, abashed. “I am terribly sorry.” She started to lower her hand to wipe it on her apron—and he caught her wrist to save the pristine piece of cloth.

“One cannot be a cook without breaking a few eggs. But here, use this.” He held up his much darker and longer apron. “We wouldn’t want to ruin yours.”

She wiped her hand on the hem, and her cheeks turned an adorable shade of pink.

Adorable?

Luca stepped back, clearing his throat. He handed her another egg. “Try again?”

She did, tapping the egg softly against the edge of the bowl, then progressively harder until a crack formed. Then she held it over the bowl and pulled it gently apart. “Then you pass the yolk from one side to the other?”

“That is my method, yes.” He stepped a little more to the side, and when she finished and triumphantly held half a shell full of yolk to him, he grinned. “Put it in the larger bowl.” He only had to retrieve one small piece of shell.

The olive oil was a different story. How much did he pour into the eggs? It wasn’t much. He considered. Then took up a large spoon that had been among the items the boy brought. A spoonful seemed right.

He added the olive oil to the bowl, then used a wide fork to whisk everything together. Once he had a dark yellow mixture, he poured the eggs into the flour well.

Miss Arlen squeaked. “You are mixing it together on the table?”

Luca couldn’t help sending her a smile—the sort of smile his mother used to tell him preceded trouble. “As you see. Do you think me a madman?”

She narrowed her eyes at him, her eyes glittering with amusement and a touch of wariness. “Perhaps. I shall refrain from passing judgment until I see the outcome of your strange method.”

“Now I mix this into the flour. Like this.” He took up his fork again and mixed the sides of the flour well slowly into the eggs. Miss Arlen came closer to peer over his arm, and for a moment the scent of flour mingled with something else—something that was uniquely the woman beside him. Lavender and citrus, perhaps. Something sweet and sharp. Bright. Like her.

He forced himself to speak, to describe what he was doing. “Once the flour and egg has joined to form a dough, we switch to using our hands.”

“Your hands?” She sounded confused. “Why?”

“It must be kneaded, similar to bread.”

“Oh.”

“Would you like to try?” he offered, laying the fork down and gesturing to the lump of dough. “It is not difficult. I did this part with my mother, when I was a child.”

Miss Arlen’s eager expression returned. “If a child can do it, I suppose I could make an attempt.” She waited for him to move aside, then held her hands over the dough somewhat uncertainly. “All right. I just—put my hands in it?”

“On it. You are mixing the dough with your hands. Working it, as you would clay. You have used clay before?”

“A long time ago. It is not my favorite artistic medium.” She sunk her hands into the dough and squeezed it together, then apart, then made a face when it stuck to her. “Oh dear. It gets everywhere, doesn’t it?”

“It shouldn’t.” He frowned at the long stringy bits of dough. “It is too wet.”

A quiet cough from behind made him glance over his shoulder. Gerry the kitchen boy turned red. “If you please, my lord. Adding more flour might help?”

Ah yes. A little more flour.

He took some from the bag with his still clean hands and sprinkled it over the dough, then when Miss Arlen put her hands upon it again, rolling and turning the dough on the table as she would work to soften clay, he leaned around her to add a little more.

His chest brushed against her shoulder, and something in his stomach twisted; heat poured into his chest where the contact had occurred.

He hastily stepped back. “See. Not so difficult.” That time, his voice sounded strangled.

Miss Arlen seemed too intent upon her kneading to notice. “How long do we do this?”

“Until it is smooth and stretches easily. Do you wish me to take a turn at it?”

She nodded and stepped away, holding her hands away from her sides with a wrinkled nose. “Dear me. I have flour up to my elbows.” She sniffed and used the back of her wrist to brush a lock of chestnut colored hair away from her face. It had looked lovely, loose and brushing against her cheek, but apparently had become a nuisance.

Luca focused on the dough, rolling it this way and that, smoothing