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

“How long does this usually take?” The English woman leaned her hip against the side of the table, folding her arms carefully and keeping her eyes on his work.

“Truthfully, I do not know.” He kept at the work, his mind stretching backward to his mother at the table while their kitchen servants chopped tomatoes and peppers nearby. “I have no way of knowing, except that it will feel right.”

“Oh.” She kept watching, though he saw from the corner of his eye that her expression had turned thoughtful. “This is not as simple as I expected it would be. Perhaps I shouldn’t have encouraged you to undertake this much work.”

“I am glad you did.” The moment he said the words, he knew he meant them. He studied that thought, the feeling of being in the right place at the right moment. “This is the closest to home I have felt in a long time. The reminder is good for me, I think.”

It was also one of the things about home he could think upon without conflicting thoughts or worry. The letters he had received about the issues at home—the king’s lack of care for the poorer subjects, the malcontent stirred by the seditious leaders of secret societies—caused him great concern. And he could do almost nothing, as far from home as he was.

The quiet settled around them, the only sounds coming from the kitchen through the doorway. A buzz of conversation, the occasional clang of a pan or laughter breaking free from the steady thrum of whatever work went on in the larger room.

The smell of the dough, the warmth in the room, made peace fall upon Luca’s shoulders rather like his mother’s shawl had on cold winter nights.

“There,” he finally said. “This is how it should feel.” He took Miss Arlen’s hand and put it upon the top of the dough. “See? It is smooth, and when you touch it—leaving a dent—it springs back. Like the best of feather pillows.”

She concentrated on the dough, then lifted her gaze. Her hand was still beneath his. “I see what you mean.”

Luca swallowed and forced a smile, pulling his hand away. “Now we cover it and let it rest.”

“Let it rest?” she asked, blinking at him. “When we are the ones doing all the work?”

That pulled a genuine laugh from him—the first he had released in some time. “I think I said the same thing when I was a child.” He brushed his hands on his apron, then picked up a cloth and covered the dough. “We make it comfortable and let it rest. Then, in half an hour or so, we roll and cut the dough.”

“Oh.” She stepped back, brushing her hands quickly up and down her apron, leaving only bits of flour behind. She pushed her hair back again, leaving a streak of white across her cheek. “What do we do while we wait?”

“We clean.” He gestured to the table.

“I can do that, my lord,” Gerry offered happily. “And fetch you refreshment for your wait.”

Luca looked to the boy, seeing the child appeared perfectly willing to perform such duties. “That would be best, I think. Go on, Gerry.”

The boy disappeared out of the room again, and Miss Arlen lowered herself to the bench further down the table. He joined her, his gaze straying to the flour on her cheek.

“What shall we discuss for ‘half an hour or so’?” she asked, her posture the same as it was in the duke’s parlor and duchess’s salon. The white-dusted apron and flour lingering on her skin made that strict adherence to propriety endearing. Could she know what a picture she made, so lovely and candid?

Folding his arms, Luca directed his gaze to the row of cups upon a shelf. The servants dined here, their meal schedules whatever made their work for everyone upstairs more convenient. Bruno had taken his meals here, too, and said everyone had treated him with kindness. He had a measure of importance as the valet of an ambassador that meant his position was respected, too.

“Have you ever been in this room before?” he asked.

“When the castle was first opened to the family, I walked through every room.” Emma smiled, her eyes growing distant. “We played hide and seek many, many times. I even got lost those first weeks. But I cannot think I have come down here more than a handful of times since leaving the schoolroom. And not much before that, either. The castle is vast, and there are other places I am meant to be.”

“Such as the library,” he said, thinking of finding her curled up in one of the large chairs, book in hand. “Which room is your favorite?”

“I cannot say. So many are magnificent, and there are those where I am most comfortable. I think my favorite rooms are those with my favorite people in them, usually. Places where I can read or speak with others on the things that matter most. The library, the chapel, and the duchess’s private parlor, perhaps.” She looked around, taking in all the same details he had, most likely. Her curious gaze finally met his again, and her mouth tilted up on one side. “I thrive on excellent conversation, whether it be about books or matters of state.”

“Then we will discuss those things, so perhaps this will be one of your favorite rooms.” Something about the way she laughed made his breath catch, and then she started talking about a book she had read, not giving him a chance to think upon the strangeness of the two of them being together.

Gerry returned with a platter of fruits and tea cakes, and cups of lemonade. The arrangement was haphazard enough that the boy had to have done it all himself, but Miss Arlen thanked him as though she had been presented with a perfect array of desserts. Then they talked more while the boy tidied their mess, leaving the dough alone.

When enough