Page 63 of The Viscount Who Vexed Me

“Not at all,” she confessed. “How long have you?”

“A few years. Since the time I was small, I desired to learn to create the pastries that are common in Santiava. But my father...he would not have liked it. After he died, Rosa—Señora de Leon—began to teach me.” He poured flour into a bowl, along with butter, eggs, milk, and salt. He handed her the bowl and a wooden spoon. “Please, will you blend it together?”

She began to mix the ingredients. He rolled out some of the balls of dough as Señora de Leon had, and filled them as she had. “Are you Hattie, then, in your family’s home?” he asked.

She smiled. “I’m Hattie everywhere, really. My parents call me by my given name, Harriet. But everyone else calls me Hattie.”

“I like it, this name. Hattie,” he said, as if trying it on. “It suits you.”

She was ridiculously pleased that he liked it. “What does Señora de Leon call you?”

He hesitated briefly. “Teo. My family calls me Teo. Only my father used my given name, Mateo.”

Teo.Hattie imagined whispering his name in his ear. “I like it, this name. Teo,” she said, mimicking what he’d said about her name. “It suits you.” She peeked at him from the corner of her eye.

He smiled. “Then you have my leave to address me by that name. And I shall call you Hattie.”

“Really?”

“Why not? We are too much together to be so formal.”

“But...does the rest of the staff call you Teo?”

“No,” he said emphatically, but his eyes crinkled with his smile. “It’s different with you, is it not? You’re not a servant.”

She was relieved and flattered that he didn’t think of her as a servant. But it begged the question of how he did think of her. “Then what am I?” she asked.

“My scribe.”

Of course. She glanced down, disappointed by his answer. She didn’t know what he’d say, but she’d certainly hoped for better. Friend, at least.

He continued to roll the balls of dough. “She likes you. I can see it—Rosa likes you very much.”

“She was being kind. How could she possibly have formed any opinion of me after such a short meeting?”

“Most people form opinions quickly, no? She likes the look of you,” he said. “Have you mixed it?” He leaned over to have a look at her bowl. Hetskedat what he saw and took the bowl and spoon from her, then vigorously mixed the contents before handing it back to her. “Now then,” he said. He sprinkled some flour on the table. “Empty the contents here.”

“Onto the table?”

“Sí.”

Hattie did as he instructed, then watched as he showed her how to turn and knead the mixture with her hands. Hattie shoved her fingers into the dough, but it kept sticking to her. “No, no,” he said. “You must find a rhythm. May I?” he asked, but he was already at her back. And now he was reaching around her.

“Oh,”Hattie murmured. Her heart began to race again. She felt too warm, and yet, not warm enough.

“Are you uncomfortable?” he asked into her ear.

Only if one considered it uncomfortable when one’s blood turned to fire. She shook her head. She was something else—alert. Sensitive. And definitely not a scribe.

“Like this,” he said softly, and covered her hands with his, his fingers twining with hers to knead the dough.

Hattie could feel his hard chest at her back. She could detect his cologne. She wanted nothing more than to lean back into him and close her eyes, feel his arms encircle her.

“Do you feel it?” he asked, his voice softer still. “How the dough yields to the pressure of your fingers?”

When he spoke to her like that, with his lovely accent, she thought she would do anything he asked. She was hardly conscious of what he was doing, really—the feel of his body so close to hers and the desire creeping up her spine made it impossible to think. His hands moved alongside hers, turning and kneading, pushing the dough with the flat of his hand, then squeezing it with his fingers. “I feel...everything.” Words had deserted her. She felt hot, as if steam was rising out from the neck of her gown. Her heart fluttered madly, trying to find a beat that would allow her to keep standing and not implode.

But then he asked her, “I should like to know what it means, desperate desire.”