“Another Christmas Alone,” She Thought — Until a Duke’s Carriage Broke Down at Her Gate
Chapter 9
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Rosamond stared through the glass. "Well," she murmured, "that settles the question of whether our guests will be leaving before breakfast."Behind her, Pickles gave a satisfied grunt from his cushion."You need not sound so pleased. We have a duke in the house, and I have no idea whether dukes eat porridge."Pickles stretched."I suppose we should discover whether they are mortal after all."She dressed in a soft green gown, pinned her dark chestnut hair into a simple arrangement, and fastened the little pearl brooch that had belonged to Aunt Beatrice. It was Christmas, after all—even if the only people likely to admire her appearance were two servants, a duke, and a dog with questionable manners.By the time she reached the kitchen, the fire had already been lit. Rosamond stopped in the doorway.Julian Ravensworth stood beside the stove: his dark hair was slightly disordered, his sleeves had been rolled above his wrists, and he was holding a frying pan with the cautious concentration of a man attempting to negotiate a peace treaty.Rosamond stared. "Your Grace?"He turned. "Good morning, Miss Fairchild."She looked at the pan, then at him. "May I ask what you are doing?""Attempting breakfast.""Attempting?""I believe that is the most accurate description."Rosamond approached the stove. Inside the pan lay something that might once have been intended as an egg; it had suffered considerably. She pressed her lips together."Your Grace, have you ever cooked before?""Certainly.""What?"He considered. "Toast.""And was it successful?""Not entirely."Rosamond looked at the unfortunate egg. "I see."Julian set down the pan. "In my defense, I had intended to surprise you.""You have succeeded magnificently."He gave her a rueful smile. "I thought that after your generosity last night, you deserved to wake to a prepared breakfast."The warmth of his words caught her unexpectedly. She looked at him more carefully: he had risen early, entered an unfamiliar kitchen, and attempted a task at which he was plainly hopeless—not because anyone had asked him, simply because he wished to do something kind."That was very thoughtful," she said.Julian glanced at the pan. "The result was less thoughtful."Rosamond laughed. "Come, Your Grace. I believe we can rescue the morning.""Can we rescue the egg?""I fear that would require divine intervention."He laughed with her, and together they began again.By 8:00, the kitchen smelled of fresh bread, warm butter, cinnamon, and properly cooked eggs. Julian had been assigned the important responsibility of slicing bread; he performed the task with such solemn attention that Rosamond eventually asked whether he was preparing it for inspection by Parliament."I have learned," he replied, "that your standards are exacting."