Snowflakes and Scandals

Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Beatrice dressed for the occasion. Not in her practical wear for the kitchen, but in one of her best gowns, a high-waisted dress of dark blue silk with little blue leaves embroidered at the edges. Something Lady Beatrice would wear. It would be the last time Noel Forrest ever saw her, so she might as well make the effort. She put her hair up in a loose knot, the curls barely contained. A wide blue satin ribbon made the style look more formal than it was.

As she rode toward Northwind, though, she contemplated the cake sitting on the opposite seat. Was she being foolish? Should she allow Noel to explain his absence? Then she pursed her lips. He had his chance to explain. If he didn’t like what he got, then he shouldn’t have requested it.

The carriage pulled up at the entrance to Northwind. Late afternoon sunlight touched everything with rosy light. But why was her carriage the only one there?

And why was Mr Forrest himself standing at the door to greet her?

He opened the door to the carriage and helped her out just as if she were a guest, not a tradesperson delivering a package.

“I’m glad you’ve come,” he said simply.

She stepped inside, but still saw no one else. “Where are your guests?”

“You are the only guest,” he said.

“You said it was an important occasion.”

“I said it was important, not big.” He smiled. “So you can see, I’m actually very glad you came.”

She swallowed nervously, thinking of the cake. But a maid had already retrieved it from her and whisked it off to wherever. She hoped the staff wouldn’t try to sample it. That would be an unpleasant surprise.

“You look so lovely,” he said then. “I almost want to call off dinner so I can paint you just like this. But I won’t, because I’m ravenous, and because I can’t wait to taste what you made.”

“Oh,” Beatrice said. “You should not get your hopes up.”

“Too late, Miss Holliday.”

He led her into the dining room, which looked west over the Schuylkill River to where the sun was setting. The room had been decorated for the season, with swags of holly and evergreens hung from the mantel, and wreaths of pine on the doors. Even the table was adorned with sprigs of holly and ivy placed strategically along the snowy white tablecloth.

Slanting light from the window caught the crystals in the chandelier and sconces on the walls, casting glittering rainbows around the room. Candles already burned in anticipation of nightfall. It was absolutely beautiful, but all Beatrice could think about was how she was going to ruin everything during the dessert course.

Noel seated her, and the first course was brought out. Throughout the meal, she barely tasted anything, her mind locked on the inevitable final course.

“Miss Holliday?”

She looked at Noel, who had evidently said her name more than once. “Forgive me. My mind wandered. What were you saying?”

His eyes searched her face. “I was saying that I failed.”

“Failed? At what?”

“You asked me to paint something I couldn’t see.”

“What happened?”

“I kept trying to paint the same thing—you. And each time, I hated the painting. It never looked like you at all. I realized how much I need to see you.”

“You painted that first one with no difficulty.”

“That was only a study, an impression. I want to—” He broke off as the maid entered to clear the plates. “Ah, this means your cake is next to arrive,” he said happily.

Beatrice was in agony. The cake came out on a silver stand, carried by the maid, who placed it carefully at the middle of the table.

“That will be all,” Mr Forrest told the maid with a particular formality. “I hope Miss Holliday will be kind enough to serve this course.”

The maid gave a tiny curtsy and withdrew, closing the doors behind her.

“Miss Holliday?” he asked after she didn’t move for a moment.

Beatrice stood up mechanically. Using the heavy silver knife provided, she cut the cake. One slice, two slices.

Then Noel was there beside her, taking one plate for himself. “I couldn’t wait,” he said. “You don’t mind?”

“Don’t eat that,” she burst out as he was about to put the first bite in his mouth. “It’s not what you think.”

He paused. “Did you lace it with poison?”

“ No. ” She glared at him. “But…you would not like it. I made it deliberately so you’d hate every bite.”

“Why?”

Bea bit her lip, then said, “Because you had the audacity to propose me as a flavor when you’d obviously had a preferred flavor of woman all along.”

“What?” He looked completely astonished. “What do you mean, Beatrice?”

“Your young lady you just visited in New Jersey. The one who wouldn’t leave your side during your captivity! The one you obviously kept in touch with and dashed back to see the moment you were feeling virile enough to do so! While I was meant to stay back in my kitchen and bake you a sweet for your return.”

Noel’s mouth dropped open as the words rushed out of her.

“Are you just going to stand there? Did you think there were no more gossips in Philadelphia? Or are you going to deny that you specifically went to call on this…what’s her name?”

“Isabel,” he said at last. “Isabel Hemming.”

“And how is your darling Isabel?”

Noel took a cautious step toward her. “Bea, did no one ever tell you the details?”

“No! Including you.”

He sighed. “This is the problem with gossip. I knew there were some ridiculous exaggerations going around, but I tried to ignore it, so I missed the worst ones. Sweetheart, this young lady you fear…she’s only just turned fourteen this fall.”

“Oh! Oh .” Embarrassment flooded through Bea. “No one mentioned that.”

“No, they might not even have known. Everyone likes the fairy tale, so why bother with dull facts? In truth, Isabel is a darling little girl, and she was a great comfort to me when I was captive. Isabel was enchanted by the idea of the noble, wounded soldier. In reality, I was just a sick man who couldn’t walk very well. But she spent a lot of time with me, often reading…or beating me soundly at cribbage. I think having someone like her around helped to keep me sane until I was eventually released in a prisoner exchange and I could return to Philadelphia under Mr Marley’s care.”

“The stories I heard implied that you cared for her…and it sounded as if she were older. But I suppose that was people being fanciful.”

“I do care for her very much, of course. But she’s like a niece or a little cousin. I hope to someday attend her wedding, and if the man she marries ever makes her cry I shall make him answer for it. But since I’ve lived here there is only one woman who’s ever captured my attention. You.”

“And now I have ruined that forever,” Bea said, not able to look him in the face. “If the carriage is still outside, I’ll go home now.”

“Wait.” Noel put his hand out to stop her from moving to the door. “Please don’t leave. It was my mistake as much as yours. I should have been clearer about my errand, and not left you in any doubt. It was never my intention to hurt you, Bea.”

“I hurt myself very well,” she told him. “And I’ve ruined the cake as well as my future…so that’s fitting.”

“What did you do to it?” he asked. “It looks absolutely perfect.”

“On the outside.” She looked down at the cake, explaining, “You requested Beatrice . So it’s bitter. There’s no sugar in the cake. No honey, nothing sweet at all.”

“Ah.” Noel sighed. “So you’re teaching me a lesson?”

“Yes. Though I’m not sure it’s the right one after all. Anyway, I’m the one who needs a lesson.”

“It looks so beautiful.” He put his plate down on the table. “It shouldn’t look so good and taste so sour.”

“I’m sorry. I was quite angry when I made it.”

“Evidently.” He pushed the plate away. “I don’t suppose you brought along anything that tastes like forgiveness.”

Beatrice wanted to cry. “I’m sorry,” she repeated. “I’m not particularly familiar with that flavor.”

“Well, we’ll do without. Something to drink? I have sherry. Or port?”

“Port, please,” she said rather recklessly. Women did not generally drink port. However, Beatrice craved a taste strong enough to take her mind from her awful mistake.

He poured port into two glasses, then walked back to where she stood, near the cake. He handed her one glass, but made no attempt to move away.

She took a sip. The drink was garnet red, and much stronger than most wine. It wasn’t just the bite of alcohol. It was the caramel undertones, the edge of cinnamon, even the tannic notes of the dry oak it was aged in. This was a wine one could almost eat.

He took a sip himself, then asked, “What do you think?”

“It’s excellent,” she said quite honestly. Then, before he might think she was going soft, she said, “It would have tasted terrible with the cake, even if I’d put in sugar as I should have.”

Noel took a second sip, then put his glass down. “I think you’re right. It’s an unusual flavor. Hard to match with anything else.”

He stepped closer, reaching out to take her glass away. Which was just as well. She nearly dropped it, she was so flustered by his closeness.

Noel raised his hand to her face, gently touching her chin, making her look at him. He said in a tone rough with desire, “I need to taste you.”

“Is that wise? After I proved myself so petty?” she said, sounding breathy and uncertain, which made sense, considering her rib cage now seemed to be filled with a cloud of butterflies. She wanted to taste him too.

“Dear heart,” said Noel. “You claim you’re so bitter and sour. But you’ve always been sweeter than I deserved.”

She couldn’t say anything more. Not when he was looking at her like that, his eyes catching candlelight and turning honey gold.

He bent and kissed her.

Catching the scent of port, she opened her mouth in response, tasting caramel and cinnamon and oak. And longing. She breathed in slowly, savoring the kiss. His mouth was warm, meltingly warm. Seeking something to hold, she found herself wrapping her arms around his shoulders.

His arm went around her waist, pulling her closer. It felt so marvelous to be close to him, to know that he didn’t just want what she made. He wanted her.

His tongue grazed her lower lip just once as he ended the kiss. He said, “You always taste so sweet. Not bitter at all. Just burnt sugar, and”—he licked his lower lip thoughtfully—“pomegranate, perhaps. Strong and a little bit tart. Which I like.”

Beatrice warmed at his words. That was not something she’d ever been told, even by men quite used to spilling pretty compliments to women. She should think of something tart to say, but she simply couldn’t. “You…do?”

He smiled, nodding. “I do. I want to taste you every day for the rest of my life.”

“You would soon get sick of it,” she warned him.

“Never. You contain flavors I’ve been starving for, and I want to sample them all.” As he spoke, his fingers trailed along the shape of her breasts, lingering where he felt the hardening of her nipples, a clear sign that his kisses already excited her. He leaned in to her ear and murmured, “Every inch of you, Beatrice. You’re a feast I will always be hungry for.”

She inhaled, almost faint from the raw lust in his tone. She’d never been so thoroughly tempted to give in to a man’s promise.

“Did you intend to seduce me tonight?” she asked softly, dazed by his steady, teasing strokes over her breasts, wanting to rid herself of the pesky fabric between her body and his touch.

“I had hopes,” he confessed. “Though I’d assumed it would be after we ate dessert. Instead, you’ve become my dessert, and I couldn’t be more satisfied.”

“You are going to make me lose my wits,” she protested, but not with any real objection, because he’d cupped one breast and given just enough pressure to make her want to moan.

“Tell me, Beatrice,” he said, sounding more urgent. “Would you get sick of me?”

“I…” She looked into his honey-gold eyes, and said, “I would need another sample to know for sure.”

His breath caught, just for a second. Then he smiled. “Whatever you ask.”