Page 10 of A Cinderella to Redeem the Earl

A portly man in a chef’s hat was standing at the stove with a ladle in his hand.

‘Good evening,’ she said.

The man turned. His face reminded her of a jolly elf, rosy red cheeks, brown eyes and hair which was clearly receding. His mouth turned down at the sight of her. ‘Who are you?’ His tone was definitely belligerent.

She eyed him calmly. ‘Mrs Lamb, the new cook. And you?’

‘Chandon. His Lordship’s chef.’ He took a sip of her stew. ‘Adequate. Fit for those who serve.’

‘They seemed to like it,’ she said, trying not to let him bait her into saying something she would regret.

‘They know nothing.’ He stalked out.

He was wrong. Her stew was more than adequate. It was delicious. Her father, who liked his food, had said so. Chandon was another of those men who feared female competition.

Well, this was her kitchen. Her domain. Next time he set foot in it, she would demand his departure.

She filled her sink full of dishes with hot water and soap and began the mindless task of washing up.

The sound of horses’ hooves and carriage wheels crunching on gravel came from outside.

His Lordship’s guests, no doubt. Along with their coachmen and grooms, who also required an evening meal.

They would definitely appreciate her stew, Chandon be hanged.

Damian surveyed his domain.

Now the obligatory meal was over, the tip of the hat to a legitimate house party, here, in the gaming room, he felt comfortable and in control.

The rattle of die and the clink of glasses amid the chatter and laughter played like a perfectly conducted symphony. Every table overflowed with players watched over by his female croupiers, smiling and nimble, while the footmen moved through the throng with trays of the very best champagne.

The more the pigeons drank, the more they played. The more they played, the more money he made.

A movement at the door caught his eye. A brief flash of drab skirt whisked out of sight.

What the devil?

There was only one woman in this house dressed in dreary grey. He passed through his guests, smiling and bowing, showing no sign of the anger building inside.

Pip, currently entertaining a couple of ladies at a game of vingt-et-un, glanced up as he passed. An eyebrow rose in question.Something wrong?the look asked.

Nothing he couldn’t deal with, he replied with a tilt of his head. They had been communicating with these silent signals since they were lads when the gendarmes would have carted them off to jail had they discerned the tricks they were up to.

Outside in the corridor, there was no sign of his quarry. He walked quietly along the hall to the nearest room, the library. He pushed at the door and it swung open.

On the other side of the room, his cook, in her prim grey gown and severe cap, was staring up at a portrait of one of his female ancestors in powdered wig and Elizabethan ruff, trying, no doubt, to give the impression she was completely absorbed. The tension in her shoulders indicated she was fully aware of his presence.

He stalked across the room and stood inches behind her. The severe bun beneath her cap meant her nape was bared to his gaze, soft and white and vulnerable. How would her skin feel against his lips? Would she shiver if he kissed her? Or would she turn and slap his face?

‘Mrs Lamb,’ he murmured.

She swung around as if startled, then backed up when she realised his nearness.

‘My Lord?’ Her voice was breathy, a little shaky as if her heart was beating too fast for comfort.

‘Was there something you required?’ he asked.

‘I...er... I was wondering if the staff would require supper at the end of their day?’