Page 28 of Duke of Eccess (Seven Dukes of Sin #4)

Octavius drove his fists into the dough, flour bursting across the wooden surface of the kitchen table. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t think about Miss Fields after she’d discovered his room of sin earlier today, yet here he was, making food at midnight like a lovesick fool.

The huge kitchen was dark, save for the candelabra with six candles illuminating a small corner. Octavius poured a dash more flour into the bowl and resumed kneading. The honey-mustard-glazed roast was already in the oven, tickling his senses with a mouthwatering aroma.

While he waited for it, he’d wanted something to occupy his hands, so he was mixing pastry dough. He couldn’t sleep, couldn’t drink, couldn’t bed anyone. Wasn’t sure he wanted to. No one but the ever-forbidden Miss Fields.

He couldn’t even get Achilles saddled and join his unmarried friends who must be enjoying themselves in Elysium. The rumors of that debauchery would no doubt reach the prime minister. But really, every other woman faded in comparison to his governess. His rakish days were well and truly over.

Just like when he was a child, alone and with no means to soothe himself but food, Octavius had come to the kitchen. He cooked alone, and later he’d eat alone. Whatever he couldn’t manage to finish would be left as a surprise for the servants.

He was still dismayed at how he’d behaved like a brute with Miss Fields.

He could have managed the situation much more delicately, could have been a true gentleman.

What had possessed him to offer her money?

Of course he couldn’t buy her. She was Miss Fields, the woman who berated a duke for recklessness.

The door opened, and as though she had heard his thoughts, Miss Fields appeared in the doorway. She was just in her nightgown and clutching a shawl around her shoulders.

Octavius wore only a dressing gown, nothing underneath and his chest hair showing, but she’d already seen him like that, and worse.

So why did he feel shy and vulnerable now?

Was the act of cooking more shameful than him pleasuring himself?

Or was he still embarrassed about Miss Fields discovering Celeste and his pleasure room?

How did she have an uncanny ability to catch him in his most vulnerable moments?

“Miss Fields,” he began.

“Your Grace!” Her eyes widened in surprise, her cheeks flushing as she turned to leave. “I’m sorry—I didn’t think anyone would be here, especially you of all people. I’ll leave?—”

“No, no, please stay. Did you want something?”

The governess hesitated. “I couldn’t sleep. I thought perhaps a cup of tea would settle my nerves.”

She couldn’t sleep, either, could she? Interesting. “Of course, please. Don’t mind me.”

She nodded and stepped farther into the room.

“The oven is hot,” Octavius said. “The water will boil quickly.”

As he returned to kneading dough, he watched her approach the water pump, fill the kettle, then put it onto the range.

“Am I allowed to ask what you’re doing?” she asked as she sat upon a stool a few steps away from him.

He chuckled. “Kneading dough.”

“A nobleman who knows how to bake?” She smiled in return. “Quite a novelty.”

“I must be the only one.”

She watched his fingers sink into soft dough, then turn it over and press, as Octavius imagined for one sinful moment how he could knead her behind.

For the love of God , I have to stop . It was precisely these thoughts that had driven him here.

“What are you baking?” she asked.

He shrugged. “I haven’t decided. A roast is already in the oven so a pie, perhaps. Something sweet.”

“If you haven’t decided, would you like a suggestion?”

“You may make one. I might not take it on, though.”

“There is no Christmas food at all in your house…”

He didn’t like where this was going. All his life, there had been one cuisine he couldn’t partake in: Christmas food and beverages.

And pork. His father’s cruel nickname— little piggy —had made sure of that.

“…and I miss it terribly,” Miss Fields continued. “My papa loved Twelfth Night cake and every year we had it for Christmas. But there are many other dishes, of course! How about mince pies?”

Those big gray eyes glistening in the candlelight showed a depth of sorrow he seldom saw in the shuttered expressions of London society, and the warm darkness surrounding the two of them lent the moment a feeling of intimacy…

She missed her papa, and Octavius couldn’t stand her being so sad.

He’d promised to show her indulgence, pleasure, to make her life comfortable.

Enveigh had said she needed a friend. If ever there was a time to be her friend, it was now.

Could he break one of his rules and have Christmas food in his house to make her happier?

For this woman, he’d break many more promises and resolutions.

He picked up a rolling pin. “I’ll make mince pies for you.”

The way Miss Fields’s face lit up in a smile made it all worth it, his chest glowing warmly with pleasure.

Octavius ran the rolling pin over the dough, flattening it. “Every time you talk about your father, your face lights up. He must have been a good man.”

Her features softened as she stared into the darkness. “He was the kindest man. He taught me how to be a decent human, encouraged my interest in electric fluid and reading books.”

“He did splendid work, indeed.”

Comfortable silence hung between them as Octavius kept rolling the dough.

“Would you like me to make the mince?” she asked.

“Do you know how?”

“I’m afraid I can’t cook at all, but I’m a good student. Tell me how you want me.”

Naked, sprawled upon my bed, your thighs wide apart.

Shaking off the tempting image in his head, Octavius picked up a cutter and began pressing round forms out of the dough. “Did you not have a cook in your household?”

She blushed at that a little. “We did while…while Papa’s shop flourished. You have one now, but here you are, rolling dough.”

“Cooking soothes me. I’m not allowed cognac but I can eat, so I am doing this.”

He told her where to find the ingredients, and she took out the apples, raisins, currants, and the remnants of the beef he’d used for the roast. While she cut apples, he sliced the beef into thin pieces and thenput the round dough pieces into tin forms for the pies.

“Why can’t you sleep tonight, Your Grace?” the governess asked as she sliced the apples. Chop, chop, chop went the knife against the wooden board. “I know why I can’t sleep.”

The guilt twisted in his stomach. “And why is that, Miss Fields?”

“Because you offended me earlier. You kissed me, you…you touched me, and then you offended me.”

Octavius felt his jaws work, teeth grinding in his mouth. He knew he needed to apologize, but he never apologized. He was a duke. He had not been brought up that way.

Their nearness as the two of them worked alone in candlelight made him feel vulnerable and exposed.

“You offended my honor,” Miss Fields continued. “You offered me money. Would you like to tell me why?”

He couldn’t even look at her. All he could do was put the pastry dough into the next tin.

“No reply?”

Octavius put the next piece of pastry into the patty tin, his throat dry.

“I think you feel guilty and you know you should apologize, but perhaps you’re too proud, or perhaps you don’t know how. Perhaps you can’t find the words, even if you want to. Am I right?”

Goddamn this woman. Was she a seeress? With no words coming out of his mouth, Octavius gave her a reluctant nod.

It would have been so much easier after a stiff drink. His mind would be light as a feather and jests would bounce out of his mouth like glass marbles down the stairs. He’d take her into his arms and waltz around the kitchen, humming a melody, their laughter filling the room.

Instead, he pressed the next piece of dough into the tin.

Miss Fields put the apple slices into the bowl and mixed them with raisins and the meat. “It’s important we face our feelings, Your Grace, and not run away from them, not hide from them in food and drinks and racing horses and—and ivory penises.”

Ivor— He couldn’t quite believe she’d said that. Loud, boisterous laughter tore through his throat, bouncing off the kitchen walls. She giggled with him.

“So you’ve seen them then?” Octavius murmured, half in wonder.

“What were those?” she asked through her laughter. “How are they used?”

He stopped and looked at her with one eyebrow raised. “Are you seriously asking me that question?”

“Well, one way was demonstrated in the painting upon the wall,” she said, her gaze downcast. “But perhaps there are more ways.”

“That way is one of the two most popular ones.”

She chuckled, and her cheeks gained that pink blush he loved so much upon her.

And that was why he couldn’t help himself. “Miss Fields, if you continue your line of investigation, I might be inclined to think you would like a practical demonstration.”

She stopped moving the spoon, and their eyes locked across the kitchen table.

If he followed his temptation and did what he most wanted, he’d hoist her up onto the table so her legs would wrap around his hips and kiss her like she’d never been kissed before, without fear of being discovered, with all the right to have her.

He’d show her what to do with a penis, and not an ivory one.

But Octavius couldn’t do any of those things. He looked away and resumed putting the dough into the patty tins. “Add sugar now, please.”

He placed the last of the pastry dough into the patty tins and began to search for spices.

He found brandy, as well as cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, and mace.

He poured everything in a bowl. The scent of Christmas hit him like a punch as he mixed.

Darkness gathered, thickened around him, ghosts howling from the corners.

“Hmmm,” Miss Fields murmured with a nostalgic smile. “It smells so good. I have a feeling Papa might come around the corner and ask how long until they’re ready.”