Page 14

Thirteen

HUDSON’S BAKERY, LONDON - JUNE 17, 1816

XANDER

Telling Mother of my plans had been… less than pleasant. And I was in need of the strongest drink money could buy. Unfortunately, it was but ten in the morning, so I was forced to settle for pastries.

I pressed open the familiar red door and settled at the table by the bay windows. Behind the counter, Mrs. Ainsley nodded in my direction and raised her index finger while assisting a maid intent on filling an entire basket to the brim with various delights.

Hudson’s Bakery, owned by the former Miss Hudson now Mrs. Ainsley, was beloved by all in the two years since it opened. The air inside swirled with scents of flour, butter, and spice, hints of cinnamon and berries lingered on my tongue.

Though the shop primarily catered to those wishing to take their pastries with them, Mrs. Ainsley had placed a few intimate tables scattered across the shop floor. The bakery had quickly become a popular location for the lords and ladies in the first blush of a courtship.

In an hour, perhaps two, I was certain it would have been all but impossible to find a table.

The maid swept toward the door, arms ladened with two baskets nearly overflowing. I rose and opened it for her, while she nodded a distracted thanks.

“Your Grace,” Mrs. Ainsley called from behind the wooden counter. “Your usual?”

“Yes, please,” I replied and settled back at my table. I wouldn’t risk losing my favored spot.

She nodded and set about fetching tea from the back room.

Through the window, I could watch merchants going about their day. None of them cared a lick for my title. Oh, they would address me with deference, but behind these panes, I was nothing of interest. And that was refreshing.

A soft brush of skirts at my side drew my attention to Mrs. Ainsley’s presence. She placed the perfect cup of tea on the table along with a plate with an almond tart and slice of Shrewsbury cake. “Thank you. It looks delicious as always.”

“You’re welcome. Do let me know if I can get you anything else.” She slipped back behind the counter.

I nodded and sank my teeth into the tart. The fruit flavors were the most popular; it could be difficult to find the raspberry or lemon tarts because they sold at first light. Once when Mrs. Ainsley had been out of the lemon, I tried an almond as a last resort. And it was now a first resort—heaven on a plate.

So preoccupied was I by the decadence before me, I didn’t notice anyone strolling past my window, and I was in far too committed a relationship with my pastries to be distracted by such trifles as a door opening beside me.

In my periphery, I caught a gentleman and a lady walking over to the counter. “Raspberry, as usual, Anna. You know how he is,” a soft feminine lilt replied to the proprietress’s request. The transaction continued, only occupying a hint of my attention.

A moment later, I was interrupted from my tart worship by a visitor in a delicately embroidered gown that matched her bright eyes. Lady Juliet.

“Good morning, Your Grace.”

I shot to my feet and pulled free the chair beside me. “Lady Juliet, what a pleasure.”

Delicate as always, she dropped to the chair and allowed me to adjust it to her liking before settling back beside her.

“I’m afraid I cannot stay. I just wanted to say hello,” she said.

“I’m so glad you did.”

She leaned closer, nothing scandalous, just enough so we wouldn’t be overheard. “I also wanted to apologize for the masquerade. I fear I was a bit… presumptuous.”

“Oh… no. I had a… pleasant time.”

She straightened considerably. “Well then. I’m pleased that you enjoyed yourself. I do hope you know you’ll always be welcome. Always. ”

“I… Thank you for that.”

Behind me, I heard a tentative, “Jules?”

Her gaze flitted past me while I spun awkwardly in my seat.

Damn .

“Your Grace, have you met Mr. Grayson?” Juliet asked. There was a hint of something in her tone, but I couldn’t read it. Not as distracted as I was by Mr. Grayson—suddenly everywhere.

“I have,” I replied, swallowing thickly.

Mr. Grayson merely nodded, looking anywhere but at me.

“Oh! I just remembered!” Juliet cried and shot to her feet. “I have something to pick up at the modiste. Tom, I’m afraid I must leave you here. I’ll just have Anna pack up my tarts.”

“Jules…” he said in a low tone. An overly familiar tone.

She peered up at him, her eyes wide and innocent. There was a subtext between them that I wasn’t privy to, and it was a nagging irritation. “Please, take my seat. I’m sure His Grace will not mind. Right?”

I rather did mind. Mr. Grayson left me on edge, unsteady, and flustered in every one of our interactions.

“Of course not. Please,” I said, gesturing to the vacated seat.

With a nod and a grin, Juliet flounced to the counter. Leaning across, she whispered something to Mrs. Ainsley.

Mr. Grayson shifted on his feet for a moment before carefully sitting. His back was rod straight, and he balanced right on the edge of the seat. His overlong legs tucked beneath the chair, but it was clear it would be too small for his frame even if he sat properly.

His gloves were tucked in one hand and he draped them across his thigh. A rigidly coiled thigh that flexed enticingly beneath his tan breeches.

“Thank you,” he croaked out, then cleared his throat. After settling one hand on the table, he stared down at it as if it held the answer to all of life’s secrets. With his thumbnail, he traced the grain of the wooden table. His fingers were long, elegant, but clearly possessing strength if the veins along the back of his hand were any indication. There was something beautiful, enticing about those hands.

Juliet returned, bag in one hand and plate and teacup in the other. She set the tart covered plate in front of Mr. Grayson before freeing her finger from the handle of the cup as it joined the tart. “She’s out of raspberry. I brought you blackberry.”

“What’s in the bag then?” Mr. Grayson asked.

“Nothing to concern yourself with,” she replied smoothly.

“Oh, so definitely not the last of the raspberry tarts.”

“Certainly not. I would never.”

“Open the bag, Juliet,” he ordered. But there was a smile on his face and in his tone.

“I am a lady and as such, my honor is unimpeachable.”

He scoffed. “You lie as easily as breathing. It’s just a miracle you choose to use your powers for good.”

Her hand found her chest in exaggerated outrage. “I would never.”

“Jules, you complimented my mother’s perfume last night.”

Oh no, that was possibly the greatest lie ever told. I’d worried, during our engagement, that she wouldn’t hold up well to life in the Hasket household, that she would wilt under the strain of it. Now… Well, whether she would or wouldn’t wasn’t really of concern. She had Wayland’s ring on her finger.

“Yes, and it distracted her from calling Michael a spiteful wretch. So I rather think it was a worthy sacrifice.”

“You’re not the one who will have to be around her every day. She’s going to use so much more of it now,” he whined.

“It is hardly every day. You visit once a week, perhaps twice.”

“Yes, and now I will have a megrim every time. I’ll have to follow her lead and take to the bed for days to recover. Which is why you should give me one of the tarts you’re hiding.”

“You are right. I am in possession of the last raspberry tarts. You cannot have them. Goodbye.” She clutched the bag to her chest and started backing away. “Your Grace, it has been an absolute pleasure. I am so sorry I cannot stay.”

“Lady Juliet,” I replied as she twirled out the door in a flurry of skirts.

“Thief!” Mr. Grayson called after her. The affectionate grin hadn’t left his lips for the entire exchange. When the door shut behind her, he chuckled silently, his chest rising and falling as he shook his head fondly.

And then he turned his gaze to me. In the light of the window, they sparkled a bluish green with a grey ring around the edge. Just around the pupil was a hint of a greenish brown. It wouldn’t even be visible were his pupils wider. But in the edge of sunlight caressing him through the window, his eyes were breathtaking.

An enticing finger clasped the teacup and lifted it to where his thin upper and full lower lip met.

“Apologies, Your Grace,” he grumbled into his cup before taking a sip.

“For what?”

“That was an unseemly display,” he explained, ruddy cheeks darkening.

“You witnessed the chaos my menace of a sister made the other day.”

His response was a strange mixture of a shrug and head tilt and in doing so, he sloshed a dollop of tea on the table. As he rushed to wipe it away with a napkin, his flush deepened.

I chose to ignore his fluster. There was something charming about it—and me being the one less flustered. “Remind me, how are you so familiar with Lady Juliet?”

“Oh, I assumed you knew. It’s a poorly kept secret. Michael—Wayland—is my eldest brother.”

A memory shifted into place. Somehow, knowing that Wayland was the late viscount’s bastard hadn’t translated to recognition that Juliet would be Mr. Grayson’s sister by law. Which was… dim-witted of me to say the least.

“Well, that explains your presence for Dav’s latest escapade. You seem… close. You and Lady Juliet, I mean.”

“Yes. Jules and I… We have an understanding.”

My brows nearly hit the sky.

“Oh! Not that kind of understanding. No. No. Absolutely not. No. We just…” he trailed off, gesturing between us as though that would clarify. “We’re the family peacemakers. A shared talent for placating volatile tempers.”

“I see…”

“Oh you wouldn’t. And be glad for it. I actually— I owe you another apology,” he began before breaking for another sip of tea.

“Whatever for?”

“You wouldn’t know it, not from our interactions. But I’m usually less… I’m the eloquent brother, believe it or not. But for some reason I just keep offending you. I assure you, I do not mean it. And I wanted to apologize—the other day, I was prying and I upset you. It wasn’t my business, and it was inappropriate to ask.”

The majority of the speech had been directed toward the blackberry tart, but at the very end, he glanced up at me, hesitant, beneath dark lashes. The very tips of them were dusted with a rusty red. It should have been a childish, sheepish expression. But instead, it was an enticing look. One that brought to mind contexts far away from pastry-scented bakeries and apologies.

“How old are you?” I blurted, so busy trapping other thoughts behind mental doors that I couldn’t restrain that one.

His brow furrowed while he tipped his head to the side. “One and twenty. Why?”

Something about that number was both a relief and a frustration. Far too young—not that there was anything to be too young for . But also… not. Because Juliet had been considered halfway to on the shelf at the same age when I proposed. Not that it was relevant.

“Just curious,” I said, brushing the thought away.

He shifted back to sit properly in the chair, though his legs remained tucked up under it—too long for anything else.

“I suppose I owe you more than a few probing questions. After all, I started it with my impertinence.”

“You don’t need to, by the way.”

“What?” he asked.

“Apologize. It wasn’t?—”

“Don’t say it wasn’t improper. It certainly was.”

“Oh, it certainly was. But I overreacted. Davina has a tendency to do that to me.”

A smile bloomed across his lips before a huffed chuckle rumbled from his chest. “I’ve noticed.”

“She vexes me on purpose,” I explained.

“I’m almost certain that you’re right. As a youngest sibling, I must inform you that it is our life’s purpose to vex the elder at every available opportunity.”

“Oh, it is?”

“Yes, there are few things in life I enjoy more than vexing Michael or Hugh. Though in fairness, Hugh is just as often the one to vex me as I am him.”

“Not Wayland?” I asked.

“Michael isn’t easily vexed. Though he does loathe when I use furniture improperly. A foot on the desk and his eye begins to twitch. And he rarely has the time to vex me in earnest.”

“The furniture seems to be a struggle even when he isn’t present.” I nodded toward his legs, still tucked ungentlemanly under the chair.

“Chair is too small,” he replied, finally taking a hearty bite of the tart before him.

“Legs are too long,” I retorted.

He swallowed the bite heavily. “It is a daily struggle. It seems every chair in London is too small. And don’t even let me tell you about the doorways.”

“Were you teased as a boy?”

Something about the question had him flushing again. But he pressed forward. “Not about that. Though your sister did call me a cricket once. I can only assume it was in regard to the legs.”

My palm found my face as it so often did in regard to Davina. “Oh good lord. When was that?”

“Hugh’s wedding. The day we met.” His tone was soft, tentative. And behind his eyes, there was a significance I wasn’t catching. “I think you were distracted. She’d wandered off, I suspect,” he added.

“I don’t—I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It was a poor showing. Unfortunately, life rarely offers a second chance for a first impression.”

Memories flashed through me like lightning. Eyes the color of the sky peeking through the forest, that time behind a domino of the same coloring. My heart stopped and suddenly I could taste the caramel burn of scotch, smell the remnants of a dying fire, hear the faint chords of the quartet. Him.

“Tom…” I breathed, incapable of anything more significant. My heart began again, the rhythm faltering, unsteady.

Those damned beautiful eyes widened and his tongue dipped out to wet that plump lower lip.

It was obvious. So obvious. Blatant to anyone paying the tiniest bit of attention.

“Yes,” he answered, his voice a silken caress. It could have been brushed aside as a question. But we both knew it was a confirmation. “Yes.”

“You…”

“Yes.” He didn’t explain. Didn’t clarify his meaning. It was entirely unnecessary. We both knew what it meant. Yes, it was him. Yes, he meant it then. Yes, he meant it now. Yes, he wanted what I wanted. Whatever I wanted, if the way his gaze flicked over my form was any indication.

“How? Why?”

“I cannot answer the how. Except to say that I made a pitiful first impression. You thought my name was Tim Gregerson, if I recall correctly. As far as the why? That night… It was perfect. Or the closest thing to it I’ve ever touched. But it was an intermission. A reprieve. We both knew that. And sans mask, I returned to the usual, embarrassing form when faced with you.”

This time, when he brought the cup to his lips, his eyes held mine.

“It wasn’t—there was nothing embarrassing about it,” I protested.

One side of his mouth curled up in a self-deprecating smirk.

Rather than respond to that assurance, he forged ahead. “So, Scotland.”

It was somehow so much harder to force out the single syllable. “Y-yes.” It caught in my throat for a moment before freeing itself.

“When do you leave?” His voice had the same strained quality as mine.

“July, weather allowing.”

His silence was heavy, accompanied by a single, solemn nod.

“It was you, actually, who gave the idea form.”

A bitter huff escaped. “I’d gathered that. I cannot decide if it would have been better for the idea not to have taken root at all. But that would erase that night. I don’t, I cannot regret that for the world.”

“I don’t regret it either. It is just… time.”

“Well, for what it’s worth—which is probably nothing—I will miss your company.”

My heart gave a jolt, rapturous even over the ache. “That is worth far more than nothing.”

His answering expression was inscrutable, merely a tightening of his mouth. Whatever thoughts lay hidden behind that motion, he shook them away. “Tell me. About your home there. What is it like?”

“I have… absolutely no idea. I’ve never been. Gabriel, my elder brother, won it in a game of hazard. And, well, I was the second son. I suppose he wanted me to have something of my own. It was a half-considered gesture, of course, but it was possibly the nicest thing he ever did for me. I think he knew that I would need…”

“Somewhere quiet?” he supplied.

“I suppose. And now, well, it has been my haven—if only in my head—for a great many years. My expectations are modest though. I cannot imagine it will exceed them.”

Something dark settled across his face, though I could not account for it.

“Uncle Tom!” A feminine voice cried out—startling us both out of our moment. A stout, ruddy-cheeked woman materialized beside Tom, a suspiciously babe-shaped bundle in her arms. Her fiery hair, now peppered with grey, was tucked back under a cap.

“Mrs. Hudson.” Tom rose, warmth in his tone, and offered the woman a one-armed hug. “And Miss Ainsley,” he added, brushing a large hand over the red curls that escaped the bundle. “How are my two favorite ladies this morning?”

“Charm away, lad. The raspberry tarts are all gone.”

“Even for me?” His smile was bright, charming.

“Especially for you.”

He pulled back with a gasp, clutching his chest in false pain. “You wound me!”

“More people ought to say no to you, then it wouldn’t be so distressing.”

“Mrs. Hudson! I cannot believe you to be so cruel. And in front of the child!”

“Yes, yes. Speaking of the babe…”

Tom’s smile grew even as he rolled his eyes. “Hand her over.”

“It’s only that the new lad Anna has hired…”

“Isn’t playing with a full deck,” he supplied, reaching to take the girl.

“It wasn’t I that said it.”

Tom settled the babe against his chest with one long arm. “Go, supervise.”

She cupped his cheek. “Good lad. There’s a raspberry tart in the oven for you if he hasn’t burnt them all.”

Tom’s eyes widened as he tipped his head toward the kitchens. “Go! Go quickly! Go now!”

He watched as the woman rounded the counter in a flurry of skirts, then met Mrs. Ainsley’s mouthed Thank you with a nod before he turned back to me.

After he settled back into his chair, feet again tucked awkwardly around the legs, I offered a dry, “Uncle Tom?”

His answering flush was endearing. “Mrs. Hudson was our cook. And my mother—well, anyone would’ve been better. But there isn’t anyone better than Mrs. Hudson. Besides, I’m already little Henry’s favorite uncle. I need to win over Miss Emma here as well.”

The girl in question snuck a hand out from the blankets. Tom quickly supplied a finger for her to tug at. When he peered back up at me from beneath lowered lashes, my heart gave a disgruntled tug. He presented an impossible picture, but all the more breathtaking for it.

I swallowed the knot in my throat. “I do not suppose I shall ever be an uncle—at least not while Davina continues to be… herself.”

“Family is what you make of it. After all, in Scot—” A great crash from the direction of the kitchens echoed throughout the room. Before I’d even recognized that he’d moved, Tom was out of his seat and halfway to the counter with the babe still in his arms, now offering a displeased cry.

Mrs. Ainsley wore a torn expression and wavered between the line of startled customers and what was surely chaos beyond the closed door.

Wordlessly, Tom shooed her toward the door and turned to the line of customers while still balancing the babe in one arm. Mrs. Ainsley hesitated only for a moment before disappearing into the kitchens.

Tom, on the other hand, soothed the infant back to quiet while fetching a requested pastry. He had to pause to check the cost from the little slip of parchment on the window before taking the gentleman’s money.

The sight was so odd, so unexpected, that it took several moments to comprehend. Tom was just… selling pastries. With an infant on his hip. He was slow, clearly unpracticed, and he struggled to manage the work one-handed. The queue was lengthening by the moment. But he was muddling through.

There was something unbearably appealing about the sight, the way he directed the small turmoil into something neat and orderly. No one questioned his authority or his presence. The very evidence of his competence left me with a flush curling up to my cheeks. What would it be like—to have someone to silently step in, share the load, carry the burden for a few short minutes? It would be intoxicating, addictive. I was certain of it.

This man, this man was flustered by me . It was a heady thought, one that left my stomach twisting with delight.

I was so entranced by the display that I didn’t even recognize his need for assistance before Mrs. Ainsley and Mrs. Hudson returned. The elder took her granddaughter from Tom’s arms. He murmured something to her and she disappeared back into the kitchen before returning with an overflowing bag. A hint of guilt welled in my chest, I had been exceptionally unhelpful.

“I’ve got the raspberry. If you’ve never had them, they’re my favorite. There’s a few almond as well.” He explained as he pawed through the bag, distracted and looming over my seated form.

“Those are yours. You earned them.”

His eyes were darker than I remembered, a stormy sea, when they met mine. “And if I want to share them, that is my right.”

“But I didn’t do anything,” I protested.

“You don’t need to do anything. Except eat a tart. Take one with you if you wish.” Tom swallowed, his throat bobbing enticingly. “One last tart before you leave them behind.” Something about the note of his voice was puzzling, but I could find no explanation for it in his expression.

I wanted to say yes. It was tempting to accept anything he had to offer. But I knew Davina would find some way to steal it for herself. Or mother would declare herself on a reducing diet without warning and order every sinful treat thrown from the house. Somehow, some way, it would be ripped from my grasp. And that would be worse than never having had it at all.

“I couldn’t possibly.”

Tom only cleared his throat in response, the sound settling low in my spine and hovering there, meaningfully.

With a short, solemn nod, he rolled the top of the bag down and snatched his gloves off the table. “Well, then. I suppose I should leave you to your day. I’ve monopolized more than enough of your time. I hope your haven is everything you wish and more.” His tone was dull and flat, nothing earnest or sensual to be found.

“Tom...” I floundered, wondering precisely where I had gone wrong.

“Have a wonderful afternoon, Your Grace.”

“Mr. Grayson,” I replied with a sad nod. I watched, silent, as he slipped out the door and passed by my little window. Far from the peaceful quiet before his arrival, the space around me now felt heavy… He’d taken the peace with him. Tom left behind a disquiet that couldn’t be sorted.