Chapter Eighteen
If food be the music of love…eat on.
Cosseting a duke proved more than a little difficult when he was absent.
Aideen knew perfectly well that after last night he’d be anticipating her fury, so of course she would do the exact opposite. She chewed her toast thoughtfully.
Purposely hurting others with nasty words was a cowardly action, but it was the “why” that interested Aideen.
Beastliness always had a reason.
One might not agree with it or even understand it, but it was still there, defining actions and clouding existences.
As such, she ruminated on how to overwhelm her husband with undue amiability and charm. Because this morning that is what she planned. She would bamboozle, confuse and generally befuddle him with syrupiness until he disgorged his past to her, revealed his emotions and told her why he felt the need to distance himself quite so completely.
But the bug had left the house at a quarter after six and however much she wanted to plague her husband, her own mood was not often amiable at daybreak, so she’d stayed in bed.
Perhaps she ought to search out his man of affairs and make an appointment to meet with the duke or leave a note by his bathing device requesting his esteemed appearance at dinner.
Dinner.
Without doubt, another possible reason for him eating at his club every night could be the cuisine in this household, as to be sure, the way to a man’s heart was not through deflated soufflé.
Aideen had quizzed the dowager duchess about Monsieur Pascale Dupont, but she’d looked coy and said the chef was highly trained, had seven children and needed the employment after fleeing his home country.
Stirring the watery jam, she wondered why the servants hadn’t complained. Normally the butler or footmen were the first to grumble if the food downstairs was inedible. She thought about meeting with Mrs Booth, the starchy housekeeper, but the woman had been very defensive about the kitchens.
Hmm.
Aideen stood, leaving her limp French toast, and marched to the servants’ stairs. If she couldn’t solve her marital problems today, the least she could do was eat well.
A maid dashed out of her way with a horrified expression, but she paid no heed. Duchesses, she expected, didn’t visit kitchens very often. But Irish ones did.
Halfway down the second set of narrow stairs to the basement, Aideen paused.
The scent of yeast and dried currants teased her nostrils to seventh heaven.
Without knocking, she opened the kitchen door a crack.
A maid stood by the large range, stirring a wholesome smelling vat of stew whilst a man sat at the scored table perusing a stained book. His head turned to the maid. “Those potatoes can go in now, Maisie.”
He buried his nose in the creased pages, muttering to himself and scribbling notes in the margins.
The chef’s hand, for who else could he be, swiped out to grab a chunk of…proper bread which sat on a plate to his side, and she heard a whisper of a curse as he followed the words with his finger.
“Dia dhuit,” Aideen said loudly, narrowing her glare as she entered.
“Dia is Muire dhuit,” the chap replied, before twisting his head, eyes flaring in horror.
She recognised him from the day she’d married, as all the servants had been gathered at the hallway in welcome: deepest black curly hair tumbled over a handsome forehead, whilst pale-blue eyes flickered in worry within an extremely pale face.
If he was a French chef then she was Queen Maeve of Connacht.
“Where are you from?”
Obviously realising there was no talking his way out of this – even if he was Irish – the chef bowed his head. “Wicklow, Ya Grace.”
“Hmm.” She stalked over, eyes flicking to the gawping maids. “Let us continue this conversation outside…and bring that bread.”
The sun shone weakly as they climbed the steps to the gardens, a haze preventing its full warmth, and the not-so-exotic chef desolately followed three feet behind.
“So,” she began, pausing under an apple tree, “why the pretence?”
“I…” He peered at the heavens as though expecting divine help from the saints above.
“No yarns. The truth.”
He scrutinised the ground as though the aid of the inhabitants below might be more useful in this situation. “I trained in Dublin, in the best houses, Ya Grace. But I married an English lass, and she was so homesick for London. I tried to find work here but everyone wants a fancy French chef.”
“So you thought to be one?”
“Had to. Otherwise I was treated like dirt, told I was a thieving bogtrotter, that I’d snaffle the silver and cook their children.” He tugged at his thick hair. “A few would have taken me on but at half the wage, and we’ve four babes with another on the way.”
“The dowager duchess said you had seven children.”
His eyes shifted. “Four. Seven…hard to keep tally, Ya Grace.”
Having been prone to exaggeration herself on more than one occasion, she could hardly admonish. “And does she know you are not in any way French?”
“I dunno to be truthful. I knew a French fella once, a footman, so I’m grand fait with the accent. I gave it lots of zhats and zizes and it seemed to work. Even threw in a few zut alors.”
Aideen doubted the astute Meghan had been fooled for a moment but it was obviously her soft heart which had been touched by the…seven children. “But the food? You say you’ve worked in the best houses but it’s…it’s…” She trailed off.
“I know how to cook the finest English and Irish dishes, but I was employed as a French chef, so I’ve been cooking French fare.” His gaze flickered. “I’ve a book, but it’s all in foreign so I’ve had a few problems, and I can’t afford to buy one in English. But I’ve made friends with a Frenchie in the ale-house and he gave me a few hints.”
“Such as?”
“Lots of herbs and pepper. Don’t overcook the meat. Cut everything up really small and splash around the salt.”
Aideen was sure Jacquiers at The Clarendon would be spitting bile at this summation of French cooking. “Why haven’t the servants said anything?”
“Everything was grand.” He shrugged. “I cook French fer upstairs and no one’s complained, but I cook Irish or English fer downstairs.” He handed her a piece of the bread, wrapped in a serviette.
Biting into it, she was transported home. To evenings by the fire with Seamus, slathering butter on warm bread until it ran down your fingers.
She missed home, she realised. The hills so verdant it burned the eyes, the freshness of a spring morning, the lichen-covered forests. She missed the laughing people, the cuddles from Uncle and the harsh coastal wind blowing her hair free and wild.
Not everything there was perfect, but London was all stern propriety and icy stares. Indeed, her own stern duke needing warming with some hot Irish stew and a soft caress.
Looking up, she noticed the man fiddling with a thread on his worn jacket.
“Your French dishes are awful… I’m sorry.”
His face fell bleak. “Well, that’s it then. I’ll gather m’things. Forgive me, Ya Grace, fer–”
She held up a palm. “But your bread and the aroma of that stew are divine. So, present your finest meal tonight – nothing French – and we will talk again tomorrow.”
Aideen watched the chef’s eyes lighten. She knew hundreds from the Emerald Isle had come over, thinking the London streets were paved in gold. But the reality was equally grim. Blood and sweat lined these streets too – of strife and poverty and the hardship of war.
“Ta, Ya Grace. I’ll cook ya a fine bit o’ home, I will.”
“Wonderful. And one other issue…Monsieur Pascale Dupont.”
He coughed, eyes twinkling. “Er. Mr Padraig Duffy, at ya service.” And he bowed.
“Hmm. Please send up a light luncheon of that bread and then I’ll starve my stomach until tonight. We will also see about a book on French cuisine. No harm in adding another string to your fiddle, so to speak.”
The chef nodded and with a jaunty wink, headed back.
“And by the way,” Aideen called, “there are only three children, are there not? Or is it two, Padraig?”
A waggish grin crossed his handsome face. “Depends if ya include the one in the oven, Ya Grace.”
Evidently her fellow countryman didn’t need to kiss anything to talk blarney.
∞∞∞
Rakecombe felt…unsettled, odd and a dab nauseous.
And it wasn’t the food either. A perfect lamb roast had been presented tonight: tender cuts of meat – not bleating – with a fresh minty sauce, fluffy perfectly cooked potatoes and reassuringly normal-shaped carrots.
Vaguely, he wondered if Aideen had dismissed the French chef but didn’t ask. Couldn’t speak. Every word he thought to utter felt trite and banal after last night’s bestial act. So he quaffed more claret instead.
He hadn’t intended to dine at home as he’d wanted to visit Bluey, but the chap’s wife had sent a note saying he was insensible due to laudanum and to call on the morrow, so he’d been at a loose end.
When he’d returned from a meeting with Rainham, a note had been pinned to his bathing device, requesting his attendance at dinner. It wasn’t the words that had intrigued him, however, but how the hell that note had got there in the first place.
His chambers were always locked or Thorn was present. After all, he did occasionally have sensitive information in the safe. So how had Aideen managed to enter?
Stealing a glance, he then wished he hadn’t. She looked so very lovely.
Perhaps dining at home hadn’t solely been curiosity about the note’s placement, but a need to make sure she was well, that her eyes were not sad or hurt by his utterly uncivilised behaviour.
But she was obviously quite well. In fact, fairly stupendous and currently wittering on about replacing his study chair as it was far too old and uncomfortable for him to sit in.
Where was the anger he’d expected? The profanities and flashing ire? He’d anticipated nettle patch curses and furious obsidian eyes, but she was so cheerful it made his teeth ache.
A cerulean gown had been poured over her tonight, the silk tight and revealing, and although the majority of her hair was swept back, two fat coils were draped over her décolletage, ocean black against the luminosity of her skin.
The current unsettled feeling had arisen when he’d noticed the dark smudges on her neck as she’d bent to pour the mint sauce. Smudges he’d caused with his lips and teeth.
He’d taken his wife like a whore and the thought nearly brought up his lamb. Aideen deserved better than him, better than a foul, angry wreck that in turn shouted, ignored and then swived her in a bloody corridor as though she was his next breath.
Goddamn, she’d looked so sublime last night after his evening of blood and pain, and the past days of intense want had crashed over him.
Need, possession and all the sentiments he’d vowed never to feel for Aideen had surged as she’d stood her ground before him, wilfully declining to return to her bedchamber.
All this time, he’d tried so hard to stay away. To stand firm for her own safety, to live their lives apart, but one look from those coal eyes and all his vows had fled.
But throughout this self-admonishment, a part of him – located south of his belly but north of his knees – affirmed how very good it had been. How tight and eager her body had felt. How he himself hadn’t escaped unmarked as his neck still tingled from those sharp nails.
That was no excuse, however. His lie of not wanting her especially had no excuse.
“Can we acquire a puppy?”
Aideen’s eyes were wide with artlessness as he shook his noggin to clear it. What?
“I want a puppy. Please, husband of mine. Uncle Seamus has forever kept dogs and I miss them. Their wiggly tails and cute snuffle wuffs and–”
“I beg your pardon?” he spluttered. He never spluttered. Spluttering was for callow youths and men without teeth. But then it wasn’t every day your little fire of a wife, who ought to be spitting venom, requested a puppy and waffled on about…snuffle wuffs?
“I’d like one. I thought you may have friends with some pups.” She smiled, face open, and he felt instantly on guard. What was she up to?
“I do not have any friends.” He didn’t mean that. Well, he did but he didn’t mean to say it.
“I see you talking to people at balls.”
“They are acquaintances. Aideen–”
“Well, can you ask them?” she pleaded. “I think a puppy would enliven this echoing place a little. Have you tried the mint sauce, by the way? It’s divine, so fresh. And I know you like cherry tarts, so–”
“Aideen. I apologise.”
Hellfire. In the past year, he’d made more apologies than in his entire life, even filched one from his wife’s favourite book last spring. Considering the circumstances, he could hardly use that Mr Darcy’s again – he’d be cast out for plagiarism.
She stared, eyes wide, a morsel of lamb held to her lips.
Gritting his teeth, he continued, “I’d had an awful night, but it was no excuse to…” He tried to think of a word but none were suitable in delicate company.
“Ravish me?” she supplied. Thankfully she’d dispensed with the servants whilst they ate. “Make passionate love?” she suggested, chewing thoughtfully. “Oh, this lamb is divine. You can almost taste the sweet spring grass, and the potatoes are so flavoursome. Don’t you agree, Your Grace?”
He didn’t know what Aideen schemed, but she was tangling him in knots.
Was this her revenge? Talk him to death with superficial chit-chat about food and puppies. Had she been taking advice from Winterbourne? That was his tactic.
“I was not gentle,” he continued, “and–”
“Alex,” she interrupted firmly.
Peering up from his flavoursome potato, he paused, anticipating the worst. He wished she’d just cosh him over the head with her goblet or curse him to the seven dirges of Hades or press her fingers into the knife wound on his arm. Then he’d feel better.
Aideen licked her lips. “Have some more carrots, they’ve a luscious honey glaze.”